


Jail Bait

by Villain



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Cherik - Freeform, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 90,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villain/pseuds/Villain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is the new psychiatrist at a high profile correctional facility for rogue mutants, and Erik is the notorious criminal who takes a liking to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Juniper

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains references to rape, so please be warned.
> 
> This is my first contribution to the X-Men fandom! This fandom is filled with such staggering talent, so I had to get over some serious cold feet to submit works. But love conquers all, right? So here is the first labor of love for you all to [hopefully] enjoy.

**Chapter One: Juniper**

Clutching the letter of acceptance in a shaking hand, Charles told himself it was from the cold. That fib didn't hold up particularly well as the butterflies in his stomach were whipped into frenzy at the sight of the puttering tugboat cutting through the water towards him. It looked like it was going to fall apart at any second. A rancid cloud of black smoke was coughed up into the clean night air, obscuring the stars. At the prow stood a stout woman, her face slowly coming into clearer view as the boat edged closer to the end of the dock, jarring the wood as the tires lining the edge bounced. Her teeth gleamed in a crooked grin, one eye covered by a patch.

Charles scratched the back of his head, waving awkwardly. He picked up his sole piece of luggage and hurried forward, leading his steps with the letter. The woman snatched it out of his hands, her one eye scanning the text at lightning speed while he ambled up the gangplank. Murky green water lapped hungrily at the sides of the boat as if pulling it from the dock back into its dark embrace. Swallowing audibly, Charles realized he could see floating razor wire just beneath the surface, and more layers of it further down if the metallic glinting was anything to go by. His first concern was for the fish, but one look at the putrid water--never mind the smell--clued him into the fact that there was no life in this water. Stumbling back from the railing as the boat jerked into motion, Charles held on to the mast, impressed with the speed of the boat. Then he noticed the lack of shipmates and glanced back at the woman. She was still reading the letter, but no one was at the helm. Opening his mouth to inquire about it, she cut him off.

“Young, aren’t you?” the captain said, maneuvering the words around a thick, unlit cigar she'd popped into her mouth, handing the letter back. Her voice was permanently loud, and Charles had no trouble hearing her over the harsh sound of the sputtering engine. Cupping her hands around match, she lit the cigar, throwing the match over the side of the boat while she waited for his answer.

“Um, I-I'm from the Academy,” he replied unconvincingly by way of explanation, switching his suitcase to his other hand in order to stuff the letter back into his breast pocket.

“Oh well, this place’ll take anyone that knows how to shoot a gun and can handle himself.” She uttered a sharp, barking laugh that actually made Charles flinch. “And you don’t look like you can handle yourself, English boy.”

This caused a spark of defiance in his eyes. “Like to try me?”

The woman stared openmouthed at him before bursting into deafening peals of laughter. “Son,” she shouted over the sputtering and coughing of the boat, “You’re alright!”

His answer was drowned out by the huge wail of a foghorn guiding them into a port nearly bleached white with barnacles. That was uncannily fast. Casting a look of suspicion at the captain, who was waving at something behind him, Charles looked up as a stream of men crowded another long dock. Above them, haphazardly exploding from the gnarled mass of stone and dead plant life like a mammoth fortress was the Juniper Mutant Correctional Facility. Charles half expected lightning and thunder, but all he got was a callused hand to pull him onto the dock a little too roughly and a hearty handshake that nearly crushed his entire arm.

A large face bombarded his vision and he staggered back, kept from falling only by that death grip on his hand. Then a sharp New England accent, mismatching the face, trumpeted, “Thanks, Louise--let’s hope this one doesn’t make the return trip in a body bag!” The surrounding laughter was raucous. Charles looked almost mournfully back at the tugboat.

Louise waved from the prow, winking at him. “Maybe another time I’ll take you on, cutie,” she roared. The men around Charles hooted and hollered like banshees and another man--one with a chest like an oilrig and arms like cedars, pulled Charles into a bone-crushing embrace. He was quickly noticing that all of the other men were roughly three times his size. Lovely.

“Xavier,” he said as sternly at he could, hand barely freeing itself from the crushing hug to make a more proper gesture of introduction. “Charles Xavier,” he finished, somewhat lamely now that they all stepped back to look him up and down. Snapping his hand back to his side, he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as the silence stretched. Not only were they all three times his size but they all must be at least twenty years his senior.

“Well, Xavier,” the oilrig-chested man boomed, “Welcome to Juniper."

The man, named Oliver, went through each of their names and Charles barely grasped a single one. He was amused by the fact that they were all one syllable, though. They began to walk up the stairs leading from the dock, sloping stone things that barely registered as lumps beneath his feet. Yet everyone one of the men glided up them and Charles wondered at their steady breathing by the time they reached the top. He was winded himself, and trying to hide it as Oliver waved at a woman standing by frightful looking gates with long spikes of broken glass. Unsettled by the image, Charles wondered at the lack of the more commonplace barbed wire.

Approaching the woman, Charles was surprised to find she was young, intelligence shining in large brown eyes. Her gaze darted over him and he felt a bit naked, her silence pointed. Stepping forward, he stuck out his hand. “Charles Xavier, ma'am,” he said, still breathless from the climb.

“Alright, Xavier. I’m Captain Moira MacTaggart," she said sharply, not taking his hand. "I am the officer you will be reporting to from here on out.” Young, she thought, too young. Inwardly she sighed. “I’ll give you a night to get accustomed before your orientation.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Charles answered curtly.

“Relax, Xavier,” Captain Moira said with a soft laugh. “Here we are a band of brothers and sisters--so forget the ‘ma'am.” She looked at the rest of the men. “Gentlemen, you make a wonderful welcoming party. But this hellhole of an island isn't going to clean itself.”

Chuckling and waving at a confused Charles, the group wandered off, picking up abandoned brooms and tools leaning against the monstrous gate. Catching sight of his baffled expression, Captain Moira said in a loud stage whisper, “They aren’t guards anymore--too old, so we sent them out to pasture.” The men heard and offered up obliging middle fingers. Captain Moira laughed, throwing an arm around Charles’ shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you your bunk.”

After entering through a tiny side door that required three different keys to open, Captain Moira took Charles up into the guards’ quarters. They passed plenty of men, and Charles wondered when he’d meet the inmates. Everyone they met was friendly--and all built like fire engines.

“Our boys are all in top condition,” Moira was saying, “But they need to be. Here we deal with the most hardened criminals and bloodthirsty killers. And of course it's not only that; we have mutant abilities to contend with as well." Her tone turned serious. "This is an alternate universe, Xavier. The outside doesn’t exist here. We’ve got boys who have been here years and believe it’s the only place in the entire world. And that-” here she paused and looked Charles directly in the eyes “-is the goddamn truth as far as you’re concerned.”

When his back hit the wall, Charles jumped. Captain Moira was close enough that Charles could taste the mint on her breath. He stared into the woman's fierce eyes and didn’t dare blink. “Y-yes,” he quietly affirmed.

The Captain drew away from him, a smile slipping onto her face. “You’ll learn.”

Moira led him through more doors that required more keys, through countless rooms and down labyrinthine hallways. The amount of uniformed men became more concentrated, and soon the two of them hit a series of rooms where guards were obviously on R&R. TVs blared, arcade games beeped, and ping pong matches raged. Charles liked the looks of the rec rooms. There were even rooms behind thick glass where guards sat to read or just enjoy silence. And past the entertainment area was the hall of dorms. Captain Moira opened the last door and she and Charles entered a long hall with a ceiling at least seven stories high, with rows upon rows of rooms. The opposite walls stretched up, looking like two facing sides of apartment buildings across a particularly narrow street. Stretching between the walls were clotheslines, and music filled the space, creating a cacophony of sound. Doors dotted the wall, long walkways spanning the length of the room, connected by stepladders.

Throwing a dirty look at a couple of guards chuckling at the look of wonder on Charles' face, Captain Moira pointed to a room; “Five rows up, last one over--the one with the yahoo smoking. Wolverine!” The addressed immediately scooped the smoking cigarette into his mouth so that only the smoldering tip could be seen via the trail of smoke spiraling up from between his lips. He made a gesture as if asking what the Captain meant, and Charles could tell Moira was gearing up for a lecture when her radio went off.

“Captain--it’s Erik again! He’s decided to take a walk on the roof.”

Moira swore, “How the hell did he get up there  _again_?”

“I asked him, and he told me to never doubt the Erik magic.”

“I’ll show him some magic--” Charles missed the rest as the captain raced from the hall, slamming the door with a sharp crack behind her.

He stared after the captain for a minute before remembering the smoking man five floors up--his roommate. Glancing into bright lights, he saw Wolverine push the still burning cigarette out of his mouth so that it dangled there--looking natural and undisturbed. Then he looked at Wolverine himself. The man was leaning over the rail, gazing blankly at him. Charles took in the five o’clock shadow and the close-cropped hair, as well as a muscular bare chest. The guy was as big as the rest of them. In his pocket there was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He pulled it out and spun it expertly in his hands, cheeky grin directing the cigarette up.

“Bloody lucky Amore didn’t catch this, right?" he shouted down, "Now I can get acquainted with you properly pissed.” He motioned Charles up with a flippant wave and disappeared inside their room.

Stomach twisting, Charles began the steady climb up the first ladder, and wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

 

...

 

Charles had been to a nudist colony before. By accident. He had ended up staying for barbeque and beach volleyball. Then he stayed longer for a very attractive lifeguard who had been hired for the party. But a hundred or so naked people, most over age fifty, hadn’t conditioned him for the surprise that met him upon entering his new room.

Wolverine was sprawled--quite literally--on the floor, spread eagle. His body was bare and glistening with sweat. It had taken Charles maybe fifteen minutes to make the climb up with all of his things, having had to make another trip when he dropped his suitcase over the narrow side. Apparently, this leeway had given Wolverine enough time to begin an exercise routine. Naked. Not that Charles had the breath to complain, or the will. Pushing down on his urge to stare, he dumped his things on the empty cot. Wolverine, still loyally puffing away on his cigarette, was doing full sit ups, arms held out, legs spread. His gaze reached Charles sidelong and he grinned.

“We’re all boys here,” he chuckled. "Well, 'cept for Amore and a few choice ladies." Charles smiled wanly and sat on the bed. He tried to keep his eyes on Wolverine’s face, he honestly did. Then Wolverine broke into some warped yoga stretches and Charles was presented with the sight of the Canadian bent double, and of him lifting up off the ground so that his stomach arched sharply towards the ceiling. His mouth was beginning to feel a little dry.

“So,” he began as Wolverine performed some deep knee bends.

“You queer?” the other man cut in.

Charles' head snapped up, his eyes nearly bugging from his head. Instantly a vibrant blush stained his cheeks. “W-what?”

Wolverine looked him up and down, sitting cross-legged on the floor, snuffing out his finished cigarette in a beer bottle sitting nearby. “Do you like to take it up the ass? Or maybe I've got it all wrong--do you like to  _give_  it up the ass?” Chuckling at Charles' awestruck stare, Wolverine rolled to his feet and took hold of his prominent sex. “Do you like the taste of cock?”

The Academy came back in a rush. Charles felt hands on him, gripping him so tightly, and a thick cock shoved into his mouth. He tried to bite, but heavy hands struck his face...

“What kind of a question is that,” he intoned softly, “when you don’t even know my name?”

“Charles Xavier: fresh from the Academy, specializing in combative telepathy and criminal psychology, emphasis on mutants. You graduated at the top of your class, though your teamwork marks could've been better. You originally wanted to be in the mutant sector of INTERPOL, but you had some ‘trouble’ your last year at the Academy that seemed to leave a black mark on your record. That trouble was the reason you changed your major from developmental psychology and focused instead on honing your mutation as a weapon--you wanted to learn how to protect yourself. But that trouble followed you, didn’t it? It followed you straight out of the Academy.” Wolverine sat beside Charles, brazenly brushing his fingers through brown hair. Charles flinched away from him, glaring.

“How do you know all that?” he asked quietly. Upon receiving his diploma he'd taken an oath that his ability should only be used in the line of duty. Though the anger slowly uncurling beneath his brow stirred thoughts of crashing through this man's mind, his more diplomatic side hushed those thoughts.

“I handle records of both officers and criminals.”

Relaxing, but only slightly, Charles was amused at the image of Wolverine as a pencil pusher, especially with a name like he had. Subtly putting another few inches between them, he said, “But all of that--not all of it would be on my records.”

Wolverine just smiled. “You got family, Xavier?”

“A sister, but she's been overseas for years now. We... we're not very close anymore."

“So you're not leaving much for this job, are you?”

“No, not much.”

“Neither did I, or Moira. Or any other officer here. You could say we’re a community of orphans. And we all have our own demons.” Wolverine leaned closer to Charles, moving a hand to the inside of the younger man’s thigh. “You call me Logan. And no worries, the boys have respect here. We band together." His lips just brushed Charles' ear when the man shoved him away.

“What the hell-”

“Listen,” Logan said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “It gets... tense around here sometimes. Everybody needs release.” His hand returned to the trembling thigh. “You’re not getting out of this place anytime soon, and you’re taut as a trigger.” Logan put a hand against Charles' chest and started to push him back on the bed. “What’s a fuck between friends?” His hand dipped below Charles' waistband, and the new recruit shut his eyes, fists shaking at his sides.

The man’s rough voice was jarring his brain, and those strong careful hands on him... ever since the trouble at the Academy, he’d kept chaste as a nun. His breathing was uneven when Logan laid lips against his own. He hadn’t been kissed in a very long time. Moaning as Logan’s tongue slid into his mouth, Charles brought his hands up to violently grip muscular shoulders. “Stop,” he whispered, groaning as a stiff erection pressed into his thigh, “Please.” He could feel hot tears sting his eyes. His movements were so slow, lethargic--he felt all those hands on him, holding him down, over his mouth, fingers pushing inside him-

Logan didn’t notice the right hook until little stars danced in front of his eyes. Blearily he looked up at his roommate from the floor and gave him a lopsided grin. “So much for the warm welcome,” he scoffed, chuckling. He looked at the fist still poised after the blow, Charles' chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “That’s some punch you’ve got. It’ll come in handy. For the inmates, not me,” he joked, rubbing the side of his face. If anything, now his gaze was even more heated.

Shock buzzed in his tensed muscles, and Charles melted back against the mattress, trying to calm the rampant trembling in his body. “Do you do that to every new recruit?”

“What do you think I am, a lecher? I have the decency to ask first.”

“Did I miss the question?”

“Nope. I asked you if you liked to take it up the-”

“Oh.”

Scratching his jaw, Logan pointed out, “You never explicitly stated no.”

Glaring at his roommate and wondering what Twilight Zone he’d been dropped into, Charles curled his arms over his face. “If you know so much about me, about all that ‘trouble’ at the Academy-”

“Never said I knew what the trouble was. Must’ve been something to damage that pride of yours though--maybe lost a fight?--your ranking in combat shot up after it.”

A wave of hopelessness swept over him. That sick grease and water feeling settled in his stomach heavy as lead and Charles watched as the last few months of his life flashed before his eyes. Countless interviews, countless rejections. And nightmares that haunted him day and night, of so many hands on him, of pain and humiliation. Of being walked in on while he was-

“So what happened?” Logan sat up, fingering an already visible bruise blossoming under his eye.

“None of your goddamn business,” Charles said thickly.

“I killed my partner.”

He looked up, curls marring his vision. He could see Logan had lit another cigarette. “What?”

“I. Killed. My. Partner. After nine years together on the force. Something of a sob story, and the reason why I work in the office at a desk. Xavier,” he said seriously, “I mentioned the demons we have--and I meant that each of us here are here because Juniper was the only place we could go. It’s Hell, but it’s home.” He took a long drag from the cigarette and looked hard into Charles' eyes. “You don’t have to tell me what happened to you, just know that each of us here have scars to bear.”

 

...

 

Being on the end of the block, their window was a huge arch of glass, marred only by thick cement bars. Blocks of silvery light were thrown over the floor from the moon, hanging like an orb over the calm waters. Charles tossed and turned, kept from sleep by the eerie wail of the razor wire scraping together beneath the green waters. He’d gone to the window and looked down; moonlight illuminated the wires like strands of glittering hair. The night guards patrolled the island, silent and steady. The air smelled like salt and metal. From the other side of the room, Logan’s soft snores broke the spell of the night, and Charles smiled at his roommate. When he was young he had always marveled at the friendships forged during weeklong camps or even day events for school. He already felt attached to Logan, but he’d always been like that. His heart, though wounded, still clung to his sleeve and he couldn't help but feel affection towards others before anything. Besides, he hadn’t been close to anyone in so long... Swallowing down a suddenly dry throat, blue eyes darted back outside, heat angling up his face. Logan’s hand had felt good on him. He'd been so afraid after the trouble... But his hand had felt good; the musky scent of him had made the hairs on the back of Charles' neck stand up.

Shaking his head, Charles rested his elbows on the windowsill. He still couldn’t believe his roommate had tried to have sex with him after barely five minutes of being in the same room. Before they'd bedded down, Logan told him that if he wanted to continue what his left hook had interrupted, he was perfectly willing. Charles had stared at him for several long moments, his heart booming in his chest. His body wanted it. Like someone off of nicotine--just the smell of the smoke can inflame powerful need for the drug. But his fear had been too strong.

This place... Tomorrow he’d go beyond into the belly of the beast, so to speak. Logan told him little about the inmates, and more on how the security of this place was so tight that Alcatraz was a playground in comparison. None of it was run by computer, which surprised Charles. Apparently the heads of this jail trusted good old booby traps and muscle more than technology. Listening to the wires singing outside like sirens, and watching the glint of the light like electricity running through the water, Charles agreed with them. Juniper was like a medieval castle. The moon had illuminated more of the primitive defenses; glass spikes adorned every free corner. Nothing could hope to land. And while on the boat here he had wondered why Louise was going such an odd route, zigzagging all over; now he could see large poles sticking up out of the water, adorned with more spikes. He swallowed: the tips shone, newly carved to finite points. What kind of men would be here, behind Juniper’s bars?

“Charles,” Logan gruffed from beneath tangled blankets, “What the hell are you standing there for? Fucking gave me a shit fit.” His questing hand wandered from under the covers and found the half empty Jack bottle. It disappeared beneath the sheets towards Logan’s voice. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, did I bother you?”

“Hey,” Logan said, grinning within a frame of starched sheets, “I don’t mind your bare ass hanging out for me to see, but I’ve never been a fan of looking and not touching.”

This again. Charles sighed. For the few hours he’d known Logan, the man had been consistent only with one thing; namely, his libido. “Logan.”

“Sooner or later, bud, you’re gonna be in someone’s bed besides your own. As your roommate, it is my duty to--ah--break you into the routine.”

The terrible scrape of the wire sent chills down Charles' spine. He tried to remember what it felt like sleeping next to somebody. He couldn’t, and it made him sick. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Logan, who was now sitting up in bed, guzzling the rest of the spirits. The bluish light of the night sent shadows spreading over Logan’s chest, throwing it into sharp angles. Charles' had to catch his breath. “I-”

Logan looked up at his face before those dark eyes dropped to his groin. Behind the bottle a grin formed. “Thatta boy,” Logan murmured. “You need to be loosened up for tomorrow anyway--those fuckin' cons aren’t nice.”

“Don’t speak anymore, all right?” His face was riddled with concentration as he lowered himself into Logan’s bed. The Canadian let him lie down alone before carefully coming overtop him, watching Charles' expression the entire time. At the moment their bodies came together, Charles gasped, shutting his eyes tightly. Logan sucked in his breath as he ground their erections together, dropping the forgotten bottle to the floor.

Charles buried his face in the juncture of Logan’s shoulder and neck, his breath already haggard as he thrust up against the other man. “Please,” he whispered. He felt Logan’s hands slide up his sides, finally gripping his waist tight as the man moved against him, puffs of hot breath shooting past Charles' ear. The pressure was building in the pit of his stomach, like a tight ball of wiry heat. He whimpered as Logan moved harder against him, the friction of their erections nearly painful as Logan’s breathing turned to breathy moans every time he crashed down onto Charles.

The brunette opened his legs wider, hooking one around Logan’s side to bring them closer, and Logan felt the pleasure condense. He growled into Charles' throat, teeth working the pale skin of his arched neck. The sound of their hips slapping together made him hotter and he moaned--rubbing his entire body ferociously up and down against Charles, rushing towards completion.

He was going wild with the terrible razor edge of heat boiling inside his cock. Charles knew he was going to burst any second, and strove to move harder against his roommate. With every breath he released a keening cry, now both arms and legs wrapped around Logan to increase the already maddening friction between them. “Please,” was all he could think to say, the only word his mind could comprehend while Logan ground against him, “Please...”

And finally the crest of white light broke over them both. Charles cried out, still desperately thrusting against Logan as the man did likewise, pleasure still skittering over their bodies in dying sensation.

When their breathing slowed, Logan gingerly kissed Charles. The younger man returned it eagerly, thin fingers digging into the muscle of Logan’s arm. And Logan laid his head down on Charles' chest, content with the man stroking the back of his neck. His uproarious snores soon clamored into action, leaving Charles effectively pinned beneath him. But Charles was still reeling from the feel of another body and didn't mind. His fingers methodically stroked over Logan’s skin, heart racing. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, and Charles nuzzled closer to the other man, aching with conflict. Logan hadn't entered him. Even the thought opened a chasm of dread in his gut and Charles had to fight to bring his breathing under control. After a few moments though, Logan's body became stifling and Charles needed to be in open air before panic set in.

Huddling next to the window, Charles stared out over the water. He wondered idly if they'd gotten that man down from the roof. Charles smiled; who knows if the man was a guard or an inmate. Judging from the characters he'd seen already, not to mention his roommate, Juniper was not a place to assume anything.

Sighing, Charles' trudged over the bare floor to his bunk, tunneling underneath the thin blankets. Summoning a calming display if warm memories, Charles used his power to put himself into a peaceful slumber. No use in putting off the inevitable. Tomorrow he would meet the inmates.


	2. Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles performs a bit of botanical first-aid, meets the mysterious inmate named Erik, and makes a few friends along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thank you to everyone for the warm welcome to the fandom!

**Chapter Two: Songbird**

It felt like the snapping of a rubber band against his temple. Not pain, but a sharp sensation that yanked him up through the surface water of sleep. Blinking at the morning sunlight pouring through the window in a cascade of white, Charles winced as his body creaked. The sky outside was not blue, but grayish white, the sea a churning mess of murky green and blue. White caps slammed into the spiked poles, though thankfully the waves covered the sound of the scraping razor wire. Charles didn't think he could take waking to that eerie sound.

Rubbing the palm of his hand into one eye, Charles looked around his room. Logan was out on the walkway smoking, and Charles wondered if the small mental snap that had woken him was the tether he'd subconsciously tied to Logan's consciousness. At times, particularly when he'd first arrived at the Academy, he'd find himself weaving threads of connection between himself and classmates. He could feel the most vivid of their thoughts and emotions. He'd done it the last time he'd had a roommate. Back before the trouble... he'd tied a stronger thread to that man because he'd been suspicious of him, even scared of him. Later his suspicions had been confirmed.

He jerked when Logan's voice cut through the sound of guards milling around below.

"Xavier?"

Looking up, he saw concern written on the man's face. "Oh, nothing. I think I forgot where I was for a moment."

"Maybe it'd be better if you didn't remember, doc," he said, digging around a small pile of clothes until he found a white tank top. It passed the smell test, marginally. Puling it on, he caught Xavier's smile and chuckled.

"I think... I'd like to remember," Charles said quietly, voice catching slightly when Logan gave him a searching look, crooked mouth curling suggestively. Clearing his throat and trying not to look too terribly awkward, Charles swung over the side of the bed and stood. Two strides carried Logan to his side and Charles felt the blush heating his face even before the other man murmured against his cheek.

"You're blushing, doc."

"I'm not a doctor, actually," he corrected lamely, ducking under Logan's arm, which had trapped him against the wall. "You should know that. No PhD on my diploma."

Coyly coming up behind the smaller man, Logan nuzzled the back of an ear, inhaling Xavier's clean scent. "Maybe I know more than you do, ever think of that?" Throwing a playful grin at the baffled brunette, Logan sauntered out onto the walkway before vaulting the stepladder and sliding down in the most swashbuckling manner. Charles resolutely pretended not to be impressed.

On his way to the mess hall, hair still damp against his neck from a rushed shower in the communal bathroom, a passing guard with shaggy red hair hailed Charles. He followed him into one of the lower rooms, and found two other guards huddled around what looked like a small pile of compost debris. Hanging at the doorway, trying not to think too hard on why he wasn't just going in, Charles craned his neck and finally asked, "What is it?"

A muscular blonde man with a serious face poked at the shriveled looking thing with the end of a toothbrush and said mournfully, "Delilah."

"And is Delilah...."

"An African Violet," the redhead piped up, nudging the last guard in the room with his foot. "Darwin, this is him." Glaring over his shoulder, the man called Darwin stood and Charles had to look up slightly to meet his eyes once he turned away from the redhead. Luckily the glare was wiped from his face and a welcoming smile took its place. Charles briefly wondered at the uncanny consistency of good-looking people at Juniper. Another blush was threatening and he cursed Logan for somehow unlocking what must have been a long-dormant giggling schoolgirl within him.

"Charles Xavier, right? Name's Darwin, and Sean here," he said, jerking his head towards the redhead, "Shanghaied you so rudely to see if you could help us save Alex's dear Delilah."

These three somehow felt different than most of the guards Charles had been in close proximity to. A different energy. He brightened: mutants. His first instinct was to inquire about their abilities, but considering he'd only just met them Charles decided that was a subject better left broached after some bonding. Perhaps some bonding over the tragic Delilah. Hunkering down, Charles said, "May I?" to the blonde boy and plucked the toothbrush out of his hand, inspecting what could possibly be a leaf. Raven had kept plants, though her thumb was black as pitch and she'd killed most of them. Charles had ended up handling most botanical duties, if just to see her face lighten up when one of her flowers made it more than week.

"So," Darwin started as Charles found the pot beneath wilted leaves and turned it in his hands. "You've come to get inside the heads of our baddies, huh?"

"That's the plan, I believe," he said, finally turning Delilah on her head and depositing her on the small table she'd been sitting on. Alex blanched and Sean's eyebrows went up into his fringe. "First thing we need is a bigger pot. Second thing we need is, actually, a second pot."

The three of them stared at him.

Charles snickered at their faces, each a varying degree of befuddlement and slight caution. "The African Violet is a desert plant. And Delilah, so aptly named, is a very independent flower. You'll give her water, but she will not drink it. Stubborn thing, she'd rather drown than take what you give to her on your terms. Lucky none of you are named Samson." Glancing up and realizing he was losing them, and fast, Charles quickly added, "African Violets soak up limited amounts of water from soil. The proper way to hydrate them is to fill a pot with water, and then set the pot holding the actual plant inside of it. The porous clay of the flower pot will slowly soak up the moisture, and Delilah here will drink in her leisurely fill."

Alex looked at the plant with newfound interest and Darwin chortled, "You have a fickle mistress, Alex. But I think I know where I can get you a couple flowerpots. We'll go visit the jolly crew and see what they can wrangle for us." At Charles' confused look, Darwin added with an accommodating smile, "The welcoming party, also known as the groundskeepers."

After Alex and Darwin left in search of Delilah's new abode, Sean escorted Charles to the cafeteria, jokingly referring to him as the Plant Whisperer. Giving his approval to the new name, Charles was suddenly punched back as a large man rounded the corner. Instantly he was yanked up and the man who'd run into him dusted him off and, in a booming voice, apologized. Sean introduced him as the Plant Whisperer and by the time the man had ambled off Charles had an appointment with some peaky petunias the following week.

Walking down the hall, Charles kept his eyes ahead, shoulder still smarting from the blow. There must be something in the water, he decided by way of explanation for the size of most of the guards. As they walked, Charles noticed that Sean moved with a strange sort of gangly fluidity, hands shoved deep in his pockets. It looked like he took most of his bobbing steps on the balls of his feet. When he was standing still, he was the same height as Charles.

"Sean, I don't mean any offense at this--I actually say it in relief and solidarity, but-"

"I know," Sean said mysteriously, "Why is it that I'm so damn good looking?"

Charles was stunned enough to let the silence stretch until Sean clapped him on the back, laughing.

"It's just that you're not as... brawny, shall we say, as the rest of the blokes here." He'd tried to put it eloquently, but it still came out with the blaring sentiment: you're small.

"Zey didn't hiyah me for my muscles, jah," Sean postured with a ridiculous Schwarzenegger accent. Deflating comically, he lounged against the wall as another beefy group of guards trundled down the hallway. Charles ducked against the wall next to him. "It's because of these," he said, pointing to his throat. "My vocal chords. I got sonar, man. I can break glass, send bats flying in funny directions.... and, if need be, bust the eardrums of troublemakers." Wiggling his eyebrows, he was pleased when Charles chuckled.

"I'm impressed, my friend," he said honestly. "This is the first time I've actually heard someone talk about their ability openly."

"Prob'ly cuz we're not all mutants here. Only about 20% of the general staff are, and none of the higher-ups."

Brow furrowed, Charles trotted after the redhead and he resumed their journey. "Interesting."

"I hear you've got some mind-bending skills," Sean hinted, pushing the double doors open for him and Charles.

The noise of hundreds of chattering officers rushed at them like a gust of wind and Charles had to raise his voice to be heard. "Telepath. Though I admit I'm quite rusty."

"Figures. The Academy is the equivalent of ex-gay camp on homos, you know?"

Standing in line behind Sean, Charles frowned. "What does that mean exactly?"

"Well, they want a cure for it but they just end up heaping on a ton of internalized homophobia," he explained cryptically.

Charles got the distinct impression Sean was speaking from experience. Interesting.

The redhead looked closely at him from beneath a veil of red hair. "Don't tell me they didn't make you ashamed of your power."

Cold shock slithered down Charles spine and he had to lean on the wall, barely acknowledging the food tray Sean shoved into his hands. His roommate, the one he'd tied a thread of thought to. That string of conscious connection wasn't so much a sign of friendship, but of caution on Charles' part. His roommate hadn't been a mutant. And if the vile words he'd spat at Charles in the dark when he was beaten were any indication, he didn't like them.

He supposed if he really did look at the Academy's curriculum, there was more than one instance where Charles felt like the savage sitting in the den of his oppressors. There was hate there, but he'd been so _talented_. Even Headmaster Shaw had told him so. He remembered sitting in the man's study during one of the rare occasions he was on campus and not touring the country touting the Academy's work. Shaw had praised his high marks and had personally recommended him for additional alternative study in honing his ability. This was in addition to his regular coursework, somewhat off the record, as Shaw had put it.

Remembering the icy touch of Emma Frost's mind as she trained him in combative telepathy, Charles physically shivered. Her cold disposition never melted, never budged as she spent hours working with him. This was after the trouble. Not even two days after, when Charles was ready to withdraw from the Academy completely, had Shaw called him in to talk and praised him. Then immediately following he was passed into Frost's hands, where she found his anger and his fear and began to show him how to make those dark emotions into a weapon.

Snapping upright as Sean elbowed him in the side, Charles realized someone was calling his name. Logan was standing up on one of the bench seats, waving. Darwin and Alex were sitting with him. Quickly scooping food onto his plate from the steaming holders, Charles tagged along behind Sean, envious of his deceptively casual gate as the man easily avoided jutting elbows and strapping upper bodies making the pathways treacherous for someone unaccustomed like Charles. Really, it must be something in the water.

Conversation slipped easily into Alex's triumphant description of Delilah's new home, which he encouraged Charles to come check out later.

"You should see this thing," Darwin laughed. "We didn't have any flower pots so the groundskeepers hooked us up with a latrine from the infirmary and a clay bowl from the last pottery class--a program which failed miserably once we realized the inmates were just making shanks out of clay and trying to sneak them into the kiln."

"Yeah," Sean interrupted, "But Logan made such a fantastic dildo."

Charles shared a look with Alex, the only other silent party. The boy looked entirely too wholesome for this sort of talk. Coming to the rescue, Charles raised his voice, "So besides being fine connoisseurs of clay dildos and latrine flowerpots, what is it exactly that you do in this fine establishment?"

Throwing an arm around Charles' shoulders, Logan leaned in conspiratorially. "We're not who we say we are, Xavier," he said, low voice stirring the hair curling down over Charles' ear.

That rush of familiar heat along his skin gave Charles a minor thrill, but he played it off, jabbing Logan in the side with his spork. "Oh, really?"

"Well, some of us anyway," he said gruffly, "I am really just the records guy. But these Joes make up for it by having quite the interesting assortment of jobs."

"I already told Charles about me," Sean supplied, taking a heavy draw of coffee. "I guess I forgot to mention you won't see me too often. I'm usually up top, in the crow's nest."

"The crow's nest?" he echoed questioningly.

"In case of... anything," Sean explained. "I can use my ability either as a warning, as a weapon, or as a signal.

"Wait a minute. The foghorn I heard yesterday-"

"Yours truly," he confirmed with a flourish.

"Sean, that's incredible! I mean, I really thought it was... I'm very impressed," Charles finished, slightly embarrassed as the others laughed. He joined them, immensely happy at his luck in finding such company so quickly. And when he felt Logan's fingers curling against his side he shot the other man a coy glance, pressing into his hand. "What about you, Alex?"

"Oh, I'm with Darwin, downstairs."

"Down in the dungeons," Darwin amended, chucking Alex on the shoulder. "We have the honor of babysitting the criminally insane members of our little family here at Juniper."

"I guess you'll be seeing some of them?" Alex asked. "I know some of the ones who can be subdued went to the shrink regularly." His eyes widened, "Uh, I mean psychiatrist. Sorry, Charles."

"Oh no, please. Shrink has fewer syllables and life is short," he said smiling. Alex grinned, turning to shove the dark skinned boy as Darwin tried to put him in a headlock.

Suddenly all heads in the mess hall turned as Captain Moira strode into the room, her presence palpable. Eyes scanning the mass of faces, she barked, “Xavier!”

Logan leapt to his feet, hauling Charles up with him. “He’s here, Amore!”

The men chuckled into their meals, sobering as Captain Moira stormed across the mess hall. Her gaze was just as fierce as before and she scowled at Logan, not sparing a glance at Charles. “Don’t you have a desk to be wanking off behind, Wolverine?”

Rocking up onto the balls of his feet, Logan purred, "You suggesting something, Captain."

“Desk, Wolverine. Now,” Captain Moira snarled.

Logan opened his mouth and Charles was sure it was in order to fire back another saucy retort, but at that moment the loudspeaker mounted on the wall of the mess hall blared, "Requesting the Captain and all first shift staff immediately. Inmate 24005-he’s- holy shit! Stop him! Stop him!! Fuck! Not again!" The voice clicked off.

As one body the entire mess hall rose and rushed through the doors like children towards an ice cream truck. Breakfast was left unfinished while guards teased and jostled each other. The line of men stretched on through the halls, rhythmic pounding of their heavy boots rattling Charles’ teeth. He stuck close to Logan, able to dart after the man as he turned a sharp corner away from the rest of the mob.

“Shortcut,” the bigger man muttered, slamming through a dank looking door. They broke out into the gray sunlight, leading the stream of uniformed guards from the mess hall.

  Charles caught sight of Darwin, Alex and Sean near the front. Following Logan, Charles made it to the head of the group. They were all staring up along the cream-colored concrete walls. He wasn't sure what he was looking for yet, but the excitement of the men was palpable. It must be something special to bring them all out here.

“Bloody batty if you ask me,” a guard behind Charles muttered. “One of these days he’ll fall and break his neck. Think of all the blasted paperwork.”

“Damn pity if he did,” Logan joined in jovially, “Erik and I split shifts as ‘Official Pain in the Ass’.” The guards around chortled.

Charles shielded his eyes against the blaring sky and stared. He could hear Captain Moira shouting nearby, and more of the guards beginning to chatter.

Suddenly he was caught like a fish in a net, held by a hidden gaze from atop the roof. Auburn hair shone like a halo, and an angular face was cast in shadow. Charles felt a distinct shiver go down his spine and he squinted. A cloud shadowed the sun, shifting the light, and Charles found himself staring into a pair of pale green eyes set in a handsome face. There was a healthy five o'clock shadow glowing red as the sun returned from its hiding place, throwing the man's face into obscurity. Turning away from the bright flash of light, Charles realized he'd been holding his breath. Pressing a hand to the hollow of his chest he made to look back up and chance finding those eyes again, his curiosity piqued.

“I think he likes you, Xavier!” Logan exploded.

The inmate on the roof was still staring at Charles, once again returning the telepath's own gaze. Charles blushed and dropped his eyes, only to raise them again as if pulled by an invisible line.

Logan shoved him towards a precarious looking ladder that climbed the height of the wall. “Right. Looks like you’re the candidate to get him down today.” He smacked Charles on the ass and began to chant obnoxiously, “Xavier, Xavier, Xavier!” The rest of the guard took up the cheer and even Captain Moira looked resigned to let Charles scale the wall.

“You can’t be serious,” he hissed as Logan started to push him up the rungs. "This is absurd!"

“Can’t you see I’m helping you out?" he said in a low voice. "Erik’s harmless, really. Earn these boys’ respect, doc.” He grinned at the sickly expression on Charles’ face and backed away to return to cheering and clapping with the others.

Wind bit at the shrinking flesh of his back as he finally clambered onto the roof. His clothes were flattened against his chest and the cold was fiercely nipping at any exposed skin. The inmate--Erik--had disappeared. Spinning around, Charles scanned the stretch of rooftop. This portion of Juniper must be right above the cafeteria because it was flat, except for a few steam vents tall enough to hide a man. Other sections of the structure flanked each side and Charles could again see the turrets and patrolled walls he'd seen last night.

Taking a few cautionary steps, he found the ground beneath his feet to be solid enough. Hugging himself as a pathetic defense against the biting wind, Charles ventured forward towards the steam vents. As he neared the first one he heard someone whistling. Pausing, he couldn't help but emit a breathy laugh as he recognized the tune. Wary of approaching an inmate directly, Charles tilted his head up and sang out, “Two little boys had two little toys-”

The whistling abruptly stopped. Charles' words died out and he waited, clenching his jaw to avoid the chattering of his teeth. After another beat he continued the song, voice spiraling up into the playful currents of wind, "Each had a wooden horse / Gaily they played each summer's day / Warriors both of course / One little chap then had a mishap-"

Erik appeared suddenly enough that Charles's snapped his mouth shut. The man fixed him with an impassive look. His eyes were so bright, shining from under brows the same color as his hair. In the bleaching sunlight they looked like chips of glass, and Charles found himself quite taken by them. Blinking away the tears conjured up from facing the freezing wind, Charles held Erik's gaze. When the man spoke it took Charles a second to register the smooth tilt of his accented words.

"Pretty voice," he complemented, clasping his hands behind his back. Very pretty blue eyes just blinked at him and Erik found himself smiling. The young man had a very red mouth. "Were you in choir when you were a boy?" Strolling up to the young officer, Erik squinted at him. "Not long ago. You’re very young."

Prickling, Charles brashly gave Erik a once over. "Old enough not to go running around on rooftops." He resisted the urge to touch the man's mind. Perhaps it was being in the presence of mutants, but Charles' wanted to feel his thoughts. For all he knew, despite Logan's assurance that he was harmless, Erik could be from the criminally insane block.

"Young enough to know all of the words to a children's nursery rhyme," Erik parried easily, delighting at the color riding high in the young man's cheeks. His face was a beautiful palette of blue and red, set in a porcelain frame. Stepping closer, he caught the faint scent of warm skin and sandalwood.

"I used to sing it with my sister," he said. Aware of the man's closeness, Charles found himself rambling. "We had to amend it to 'two little children'. She didn't mind that it no longer rhymed as long as she could feel included. Then of course the two little boys, Jack and Joe, were now Jack and Jill."

"Like the two that went up the hill?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Jill must be the go-to girl's name in nursery rhymes."

"Ah. Makes perfect sense." Their locked gazes hadn't once wavered and Erik could feel the tension mounting in his chest. Somehow he knew that this pale interesting man was a mutant.

"Doesn't it," he said, laughing easily. He covered his mouth, trying to turn the laugh into a cough when Erik didn't join in. The man just kept looking at Charles with deep, reflective eyes. Blushing slightly, Charles rubbed his hands together, blowing on them to keep them warm. Suddenly Erik grabbed his hands and held them tightly. Charles reacted instantly, swinging his leg up in a well-planted kick, which got Erik in the ribs. The inmate went down in one knee, but he didn’t let go of Charles’ hands. Surprised at himself, he froze, staring down at Erik in shock as the prisoner wheezed and managed to give a breathy chuckle.

“Not a songbird but more like a snake.” The guard’s face was really beautiful, Erik mused. His eyes were big and blue and the tantalizing waves which fell around his face beckoned to Erik’s fingers. Slowly, still holding blue eyes, he lowered his face and blew a stream of warm air onto the smooth hands.

“What are you doing?” Charles asked, voice cracking, just a little. Experimentally, he tugged on his hands to no avail, wondering if he should kick the convict one more time.

“Obviously you’re not used to this climate.” For emphasis, he rubbed at Charles’s hands, pleased when he felt them getting warm. “I’m plenty warm though.”

Charles searched the man’s face for double meaning. His expression was inviting and honest. Somehow he didn’t feel threatened. “I’m really not that cold. Don't let the accent fool you, I’m from upstate New York, so I’m used to it.” He knelt down along with the man, hands still confined within Erik’s grip. “But usually my north sense warns me to wear warmer clothes. Though I suppose I didn't know I'd be up on a rooftop in the naked wind.” He stared hard at the inmate, wondering while he spoke why he was saying so much to this man. “Your name’s Erik.” Gazing earnestly into the unreadable face, he pulled his hands free and switched their hold. “Will you come down off the roof with me, Erik?”

“For you, vicious little song bird?” Erik flexed his fingers, observing their texture against the young officer’s. Then he whispered, “Maybe you’ll sing to me more if I do?”

Charles gave the other man a small smile. “I don’t know many other songs.”

“I’ll teach you,” Erik whispered, leaning in so Charles could hear him.

He could feel the warmth coming off Erik’s skin. His voice caught in his throat, alarms going off in the back of his head. Various mental maneuvers that could immobilize the man clamored to be used, but Charles held them at bay. It would do no good to alienate Erik and possibly harm him. "Perhaps."

“What, I didn’t hear you,” Erik murmured bringing their faces even closer together. “Here, whisper in my ear, songbird.”

He brought the side of his face flush against Charles’ and the young officer stiffened when the coarse bristles on the man’s face gently scraped his cheek. He wasn’t cold anymore. “I said perhaps. After all, we won't be meeting on rooftops every time.”

“That’s good."

Charles gasped at how deep and full Erik’s voice sounded so close to his ear. Glancing to the side, he was met with the embers of twinkling eyes.

Erik was grinning. “That’s very good.”

Then he was flush against him and for a minute Charles panicked before his eyes found the dart poking out the side of Erik's neck. Knees buckling under the man's dead weight, Charles gently lowered him to the ground. A man in a white lab coat came rushing over. Whipping out a stethoscope, the man lifted Erik's shirt without preamble and all of a sudden the bare skin of Erik's stomach was pressing hot against the thin fabric of Charles' shirt. His widened eyes went unnoticed as the new arrival checked the inmate's vital signs. Glancing up at Charles, the man in the white coat pushed his glasses back up his nose with a shy, crooked smile.

"Sorry about that," he said, expression turning sheepish, "I've been wanting to try out that sedative. Bit potent, I think." When the other man just stared at him, he quickly added, "I'm Hank. You must be Xavier, the new psychiatrist?"

"Yes, that's me," he said uneasily, taking the young man's hand. "Please call me Charles."

"All right," he said pleasantly, hanging the stethoscope back around his neck and waving over a few other men whose heads were bobbing like apples over the edge of the roof. "He's down!" Looking back at Charles he said, "We'll need to set up a meeting after your orientation. I have the medical records in my office; medical issues, problematic behaviors. We'll be sharing a space as soon as Louise brings your desk from the mainland."

"Oh, the last psychiatrist didn't have one I could use?" he asked distractedly, finding his fingers curiously running through smooth auburn hair. The inmate's face was soft in sleep.

At the question Hank's expression was one of consternation. He stayed silent as the other guards collected Erik's inert body from Charles, hauling it down the side of the wall like they'd had a lot of practice. When they disappeared over the edge Hank cleared his throat. "Ah, the last one didn't stay long enough to get a desk. And the one before... she had a desk, but it got--"

"Yes?"

"A bit smashed."

"A bit?"

"Okay, to smithereens," he admitted, hanging his head. "We ended up using it as sawdust for the compost heap."

...

Later Charles walked beside Darwin, wishing he'd brought a notepad along to jot down the seemingly endless amount of information he was expected to remember. At one point he'd sagged against the wall, holding his hands up in defeat.

"My friend, I don't know what they told you about my telepathic abilities, but perma-auditory memory is not part of it."

Darwin laughed, patting Charles on the back sympathetically. "I feel your pain, man, but it's necessary. You'll learn it eventually."

"They say the adult mind has to hear something seventeen times before the information sticks."

"Now how is it you can remember random info like that and yet you can't remember which way the exit is?"

Charles groaned, "Take pity on me, Darwin. I'm sure it's senility setting in. Maybe the captain should just put me to pasture like Oliver and the other groundskeepers."

"Chin up, doc," he comforted him, using Logan's nickname for the man. Stopping before a large door, Darwin became serious. "Now, Charles, we're going to be heading into the cellblock. I'm not going to ease you into this. Eventually you'll have to get to know the little angels Alex and I get the pleasure of spending our days with, but first you'll need to meet the mob. Hope you have a strong stomach."

And that was all the warning he had. It wasn't more than three seconds before an inmate was gyrating against the bars of his cell, commenting on the unique redness of Charles' mouth. That was the tamest of the onslaught. Unbeknownst to Darwin, Charles was having a panic attack. Clamoring voices of the inmates blended with the shadowy words from his past, twining around his throat and cutting off his air. His mental defenses came up strong and sudden and even Darwin's words were shut out. Charles tunneled his own vision, seeing nothing but the door at the end of the hall. His heart pounded in his ears and bile was rising in his throat. _Don't lash out_ , he chanted, _Don't lash out. Stay calm, Charles. Calm. This is not what you think. You are safe. They won't hurt you._ He finally closed his eyes completely and let Darwin lead him, opening them only when the other man let go of his arm or made a sudden movement.

By the time they'd reached the end of the block, Charles felt like a piece of meat hung out before a pack of rabid dogs. Darwin had a comforting hand on his shoulder the entire time and had even lashed out at a couple of the more brash inmates. Charles didn't miss the incredible way Darwin's limb shifted when he shoved a man back or shielded Charles from flying feces.

Giving the man a wavering smile while he practically fell through the door in relief, Charles said, "If anything, your ability is amazing."

"They don't call me Darwin for nothing," he said with amusement. "Alex and I both have the types of abilities that have the best chance to survive any situation or dangerous threat. It's the policy that if a staff member is taken hostage we cannot give in to inmate demands, so staff down with us are in particular need of the ability to handle themselves."

Charles swallowed nervously, mind shying away from the implications of Darwin's words. If you're taken, that's it unless you can get yourself out. Even the thought made his heart clench. Glad when the door was slammed shut and locked behind them, the sound abruptly cut off, Charles took in the new environment. It was another hallway, long and bare. No windows or doors. At the very end there was a sharp turn and beyond, who knew?

Darwin continued his description of the various blocks and systematic categories that separated the inmates.

"At Juniper, it's not necessarily the crime; it's the mutation we're concerned with. If the bank robber used an ability that spontaneously combusts anything he pleases, he's a maximum lock-up. If someone assaults another person by making icicles they are less of a threat, though their crime is more serious. Anyone who is a shifter or teleporter is maximum of the maximum, and usually kept heavily sedated. Then of course you have our boys, the nut jobs. It doesn't really matter if they can grow daisies at will or run faster than a speeding bullet, they're too dangerous to play with the other children."

"Where is Erik detained?" He immediately clicked his mouth closed, not meaning to speak his thoughts aloud.

"Erik Lehnsherr," Darwin announced, swinging around the corner at the end of the hall. "He's in isolation, shut down in a box. And yet he manages to escape on a regular basis. And get this; we still have no clue what his power is. Anyone who would know has been killed before he got here. He's made no real attempt to get off the island so we don't keep him drugged like the basket cases. But I'll tell you something, Charles, as a friend."

Warily Charles nodded. "Yes?"

"He's the reason the last shrink left. Man, she left _fast._ It was freaky, man. She was a really cheery person, and handled every other inmate pretty well. I think they liked her because she had braces and it made her lisp a bit. But after meeting Erik, that was it. Wouldn't speak to anyone about it. Kept her mouth shut. And I mean she literally didn't open her mouth after her first session with him. She was silent as a mummy and left within a day of seeing him." He shuddered.

A lick up fear crept under his skin. "What were his charges in the first place?"

"He massacred some anti-mutant conference. But there're rumors they were planning to use him as a sacrifice to set some sort of example. This group had lynched mutants before. I guess Erik wasn't going to let that happen to him. But the justice system hasn't exactly amended itself to deal with mutant-level self-defense."

Charles wondered if he would have attacked the group of men from the Academy if he'd had the ability at the time. Something inside of him sympathized with Erik. He knew what it was like, in a way. Following Darwin through yet another door, Charles recalled the depth and intelligence shining in Erik's sea green eyes. What secrets were hidden behind them? Charles decided then and there that he was going to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delilah is from the Hebrew Bible, Book of Judges. Her story is more commonly called "Samson and Delilah".
> 
> There is actually a rule about the number of times someone needs to hear something before they can properly recall it, but no amount of Google searching could turn up the accurate number, so I made it up. : /


	3. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Charles gets some action... and then gets some more action. Erik needs stitches and we meet some of Charles' future patients.

**Chapter 3: Closer**

 

Logan's hands were warm as they gently spread his legs. Charles' breathing was steady, pupils dilated with not fear, but arousal. When Logan's tongue circled the head of his erection Charles hissed, digging his fingers into short brown hair. Whether the man was aware or not--most likely the latter--he was part of Charles self-prescribed therapy. Their first night had awakened the suppressed part of Charles, the part that wanted the touch of a man's hand on him, wanted the heat of that touch. Since the... trouble Charles had been too afraid. Too afraid to trust and too afraid of his own fear.

He wasn't falling for Logan. If anything, and even Logan had put it this way, they were fuck buddies. Charles had tried to say it out loud and just ended up rolling his eyes. Americans came up with the silliest labels for relationships. They couldn't leave well enough alone, could they? Regardless, Charles was thankful for Logan. Especially as the bigger man sucked him down to the root and Charles had to cover his own mouth to muffle a cry of pleasure. Breathing heavily, he watched as Logan bobbed his head. Every now and then that smoldering gaze would dart up and Charles would be enveloped by it. But worry was niggling at the corner of his mind. Logan would expect some reciprocation for this, would he not? Charles' brow furrowed as he canted his hips, Logan's fingers dancing over his sac with uncanny skill.

"U-um," Charles stuttered, hard-pressed to form the string of words into a coherent sentence, "Logan, let me... oh, let me--"

He let Charles fall from his lips with an audible smack. "Xavier, just moaning would be great. Don't dry to talk dirty--"

" _Logan_ ," he snapped. Who said he couldn't talk dirty if he wanted to? "I was just going to say that... ah." He stopped, face flushing. "I mean, I think we could be arranged into a much more mutually beneficial position."

It took him a moment, but Logan cracked up, actually falling back from Charles entirely and laying spread-eagle on the floor, staring at the younger man like he had sprouted pink feathers from his ass. "Xavier. _Charles_. Man, just say you wanna 69, okay? You use _way_ too many syllables. I feel like you could save a lot of time and live more of your life if you simplified." He was still chuckling when Charles crawled down next to him on the floor, red lips quirked in a wry smile.

"Alright then," he conceded, face turning even redder. "Let's 69 then."

"Turn around, Charles," Logan said, voice a soothing rumble.

Gulping down a suddenly dry throat, Charles turned away from Logan, lying down alongside him. Not giving hesitation time to grow into nervousness, he took Logan's impressive erection in hand and lowered his mouth to delicately kiss the tip of it. His skin prickled pleasantly as Logan rubbed his back, returning to giving Charles nothing short of a fantastic blowjob. Again, Charles silently thanked Logan. Though the man's obvious arousal was staring Charles in the face, he never gave any indication of force or impatience. Ironic, Charles thought, given his rough character.

Drawing his tongue over the hot flesh, Charles simultaneously fisted the base of Logan's dick. The hollowing of Logan's cheeks and the positively filthy sound of wet sucking seriously distracted him. Taking a deep breath, Charles calmed his mind and leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the head of Logan's cock. It sat heavy on his tongue and he drew it slowly in, inch by inch, until he felt it brush the back of his throat. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and Charles focused on the feel of Logan's mouth on him, taking that pleasure and using it like a mental salve. He drew away a little and lapped at the tiny drops of precum dripping down the stiff flesh. Moving his hands a little faster, gaining confidence as Logan moaned appreciatively, Charles bent his head and this time _sucked_ Logan in deep. He closed his eyes and directed all of his attention to the task at hand; the taste, the sounds Logan made, and the good vibrations that shivered down his cock as a result. Moaning a little, Charles took the other man in even deeper, red lips sliding easily over the slick skin. He remembered this--enjoying it, wanting it. Like an archeological tool carefully chipping away at the mud around a precious artifact, Charles was unblocking the feelings and wants that his past had buried.

He growled, unable to resist arching his hips, thrusting deeper into Charles' mouth. Where had this come from, Logan wondered, delighted as Charles exhibited a very fine skill or fellatio that Logan vowed to explore at length--no pun intended--from here on out. Cupping Charles' pert little ass, Logan pushed the man's hips forward, mimicking a rocking motion that Charles matched, thrusting in and out of Logan's mouth. Humming around the pulsing cock currently plunging down his throat, Logan swirled his tongue and even used his teeth. Charles was writhing next to him, his own technique growing sloppy--by no means diminishing in pleasure--as his orgasm neared. Logan replaced his mouth with a hand long enough to throatily order, "Come for me, doc" before deep-throating the younger man.

Logan's rough voice fell on his ears and pushed him over the edge. Charles' threw back his head and made a keening sound, panting as Logan sucked him dry. Breathing heavily, body thrumming with sensation, Charles attacked Logan's cock with renewed vigor, the loud, wet sounds filling their room.

"Good, Charles, fuck," Logan murmured, stroking Charles' stomach. "I'm... close." He wondered distractedly if the doc would spit or swallow before he cried out in surprise as the cheeky little bastard used his teeth, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. Logan was grinning like mad, dragging his nails down Charles' side. "Again," he groaned, voice spiraling up into a long moan as Charles' alternately nibbled at his cock and sucked like a fiend. Logan decided quickly that war, murder, betrayal could all be avoided if more people received oral sex at this level. He couldn't fathom ever being anything but extremely happy, as happy as he was right now as the Juniper Mutant Correctional Facility psychiatrist sucked his cock like he was born to do it.

 

...

 

The blonde guard Erik didn't particularly like was standing in front of them. He was wearing the dampers on his head so that the mutants among the inmates that had abilities to manipulate the mind couldn't affect him. Erik knew that if they really wanted to they could, but why risk the guard going off the handle and slicing them all to bits with his molten hot plasma rings? They'd all seen him when he first came on board at Juniper. He'd performed a demonstration, cutting through stone, metal with bright red rings of concentrated energy flying from his body like hollow discuses. Juniper had done well to put him down with the mentally unstable population. Though the group he currently stood in front of was a mix of the lifers and the mentally ill, most heavily sedated and tightly bound with every precaution.

A few other guards met them in the inmate cafeteria (currently acting as the holding cell for these multiple mutants). The black guard who had earned something like a positive reputation with the convicts approached the blonde and whispered in his ear. Erik strained to hear but couldn't catch anything. He was pressed on all sides by the other mutants, irritated that he was roused from his bed and taken from an immensely pleasant dream filled with orb-like blue eyes and pretty red lips--

"Does anyone know exactly why we are here?" Mister Sinister--a ridiculous name in Erik's opinion--snarled. "As much as I enjoy waking in the middle of the night to be glared at by our dear handsome guards--"

"I could be jerkin' it," grunted Juggernaut. Mister Sinister shot him an acidic look and Erik snorted. Soulless eyes landed on him and Sinister's thin mouth curled into a cold-blooded smirk. "Oh, I'm certain you're _quite_ upset yourself, Lehnsherr." His voice was a quiet purr too low for the guards to take any notice, but with a tone that silenced the rest of the inmates as they all listened eagerly.

Loathe to take the bait Erik just sighed, glancing back at the guards. One of them was holding a bag full of what Erik assumed to be shanks and various other primitive prison weapons. They'd each been thoroughly searched and any of them harboring even the most laughable of items was carted away to solitary confinement. He hated raids. The knives and bludgeoning tools his _peers_ manufactured from toothbrushes, paper, and the plastic utensils they swiped from the cafeteria were far below Erik himself. After all, only humans needed to use weapons like that. Neanderthals had weapons like that. Mutants were far too evolved to stoop so low.

Lost in this train of thought, Erik didn't notice when Mister Sinister shot a pointed look at another mutant. The giant mutant moved forward and Erik almost jumped out of his skin as a long, sharp nail trailed over the back of his neck.

"We heard about your little stroll on the roof, Lehnsherr," a slimy voice coated his ears with simpering inflection. Erik stiffened, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. "Heard that a pretty little thing soothed the savage beast that day."

Remaining silent, Erik fixed his gaze on the guards, who seemed to be arguing about something.

"I've yet to see him for myself," murmured the mutant. It could be none other than Mojo, a regular in the insane ward. He was a trickster, completely without remorse or emotions. "But if he's got your attention I suppose he must be something to behold."

Erik could feel the evil yellow eyes boring into the back of his head, aware of the tendrils of oily consciousness sliding through his own thoughts. Erik was too strong to fall prey to his games, but the sensation was unnerving nonetheless. Like fingers poking around in a dark corner. But Mojo couldn't see into minds, or fully manipulate them. He could only suggest and weaker minds might fall prey. His nail left Erik's neck, but he was still too close. Out of the corner of his eye Erik could see the dirty white-blonde dreadlocks snaking down over meaty shoulders. The man was albino, the yellow of his eyes and the yellow of his teeth the only color that registered. He was a disgusting example of the mutant species. Erik's jaw tightened.

A thin line of chilling laughter bubbled out of Mojo's mouth, his breath rancid as it ghosted over the side of Erik's face. "I'll be seeing your sweet doctor in a few days, Lehnsherr. Should I say hello to him for you?" He could see the veins standing out in Erik's neck. Trading a look with Sinister, Mojo moved even closer to the silent man, yellow eyes wary of the guards as he whispered, "Do you think he can help a poor soul like me? Perhaps I can make him scream a little, hmm? We get to be in there alone with him, free to say anything we'd like. I'm sure the precious thing won't mind if I want to give him a little... prod." He opened up a stream of images in Erik's mind. Though Mojo didn't know his face, he could still send visions into another person's thoughts that would attach to any familiarity in their own subconscious. 

Closing his eyes, anger swelling dark and dangerous beneath his brow, Erik saw the young man twisting in agony, screaming. He knew it was all a ruse, but that didn't stop the terrible black rage coursing through his veins. When Mojo started laughing coldly, something snapped inside Erik. He whirled around and, swinging his bound hands like an ax, struck Mojo hard across the face. The obese man staggered to the right, cackling even louder before launching himself at Erik.

Darwin was there in an instant, body solid as a rock. He dragged Erik back as one of the guards raised a stun gun and shot Mojo in the side of the neck. Blood running from his nose, Mojo stared up at Erik, panting like an overtaxed bull. He gave the man a biting smile, teeth shining crimson in the light. Erik glared back, aware of blood streaming hot down his face where Mojo had sliced him with his eerily long nails.

The vision of the blue-eyed young man faded like smoke into the sky. Erik's eyes were narrowed. He hadn't known the man was a... doctor? Not a doctor of medicine like that crack shot who so enjoyed shooting him with sedatives, surely. Then realization dawned and Erik forgot all about Mojo and the guard reinforcing his binds. Apparently the new psychiatrist had arrived and Erik hadn't known. A thrill ran through him. He'd get to see his vicious little songbird again. Just the two of them. Blinking as the guard started to drag him off--most likely to spend a night in solitary--Erik resisted only long enough to hawk a bloody loogie into Mojo's face, smirking as the albino mutant roared with rage.

 

...

 

The foghorn was deafening, and the knowledge that it came from a skinny redhead baffled him, even with the knowledge that Sean was a mutant. Curious, Charles rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window, grinning when he saw Louise and her boat pulling up to the dock. Her wild auburn hair spiraled out from her head in an unmanageable mop of tight frizzy curls, a tight captain's hat hugging her crown. He could see a line of men making their way to the cliff-side stairs, surprised when he realized they were guards and not the regular gang of groundskeepers. Craning his neck to see as Louise disappeared below the line of the cliff, Charles nearly jumped when Logan's voice emerged from beneath his cocoon of blankets.

"Tha' Louise?"

"Yes, she just pulled in."

"Mrrrmphjgkajgf...." The top of his head vanished before Logan slipped out from underneath the covers like an insect from under a leaf. Peering up into Charles' blinking face, he gave the man a toothy grin. "Bout time the old battle ax showed up. Come on, Xavier. She'll want to see you. She owes me five bucks now that you've made it a few days here without punching someone. Plus she might have your desk by now."

"Charming," he deadpanned, pulling on a sweater. Logan strode past him in nothing but boxers and an undershirt, doing that annoyingly dashing thing where he vaulted the railing and slid down the side of the wall. Opting for the more traditional--if slower--route, Charles was one of the last to walk down the stairs, arms folded against the cold.

Louise stood like a general overseeing her troops, one leg poised on the prow. She was shouting good-naturedly, dropping down packages and directing men who trotted up the gangplank to lift down heavier objects from aboard the vessel. Charles broke into a jog when he saw what must be his desk lifted down the side of the boat. A group of guards had wordlessly surrounded it, lifting it like nothing to bear back up the steps. Stepping aside as they went past, he watched them for a moment before going over to say hello to the boat's captain.

"Well if it isn't English boy," she trumpeted, dropping nimbly to the ground. She started laughing as Logan swaggered over, a box of Jack under his arm. Slapping a few bills into his hands, she punched him in the shoulder as he shot Charles an obnoxious grin, already swigging from a bottle.

"Louise," Charles greeted, "I didn't know you made regular trips to the island."

"I'm Juniper's lifeline, son," she said. "You got a request, sweetie, I'm the one to fill it. I'm your mail-lady, ambulance, and black market specialist--but don't you tell Moira that. She'll have my head. But how are you, boy?"

"Fine, Louise," he said, unable to keep a beaming smile off his face. "I hope my welfare is worth the five dollars you had to give up."

"Aw, it's worth it, smart ass," she shot back, clapping him on the back. "Now you listen. You need anything you let me know. I come a few times a week to deliver mail and whatnot."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Louise."

"Alright. You keep your chin up and don't let these boys take advantage of you," she ordered, hands on her hips.

Even standing a good number of inches shorter than Charles she was a force to be reckoned with. A flood of warmth blossomed in his chest for this woman and Charles found another smile stretching across his face. "Deal."

He stood on the dock with the others, waving as Louise backed out of the narrow waterway, repeating the same complicated patterns through the water as when she'd first brought Charles to Juniper.

Hank was waiting in his office-- _their_ office when Charles made his way back inside. Charles peeked in and saw the doctor digging through the file cabinet--their file cabinet?  Closing the door behind him, Charles waved when Hank glanced up.

"Oh, Xavier! I'm glad you stopped by. Nice desk, by the way."

"Thanks, I believe Moira picked it out." Running his hand over the wood, he supposed this was quite a pivotal moment. Up until now he'd been floating around the institution, going on rounds with Darwin or sitting up in the crow's nest with Sean. The desk symbolized the beginning; soon it'd be filled with notes, files, pens... everything one would think to have a in a desk. He'd never had one before, not to call his own in the workplace anyway. Grinning, he bit his lip. Excitement coursed through him, and it took him a minute to realize Hank was speaking.

"...I'm on my way there now."

He looked up, embarrassed. "I'm sorry Hank, what was that?"

"Oh, I was just saying you can go ahead and make yourself at home. Mi casa es, uh, your casa."

"Thank you, my friend. And it's 'su casa'."

"Right," Hank mumbled, ears bright red. "Well, I'll be off to the infirmary now. The guys put the desk there, but if you want to move it--"

"The infirmary?"

"Yeah, there was fight downstairs during a search. I guess they turned up some pretty gnarly weapons the inmates were harboring. Scary stuff."

Trying not to imagine what ghastly tools men with too much spare time had created, Charles cleared his throat and asked, "Someone was hurt?"

Hank gave him a crooked smile, hefting a thick file in his hand. "I don't know if he's capable of being hurt... but Erik Lehnsherr will need some stitches, yes."

"E-erik? Um, Mr. Lehnsherr, I mean?" His gut twisted unpleasantly, mind filled with sea green eyes. A shiver went down his spine when he remembered the roughness of the man's cheek against his own.

"The one and only." Noticing the pallor of Charles' face, he frowned. "You all right? Maybe you should go get some sleep. It's pretty late."

"Actually, may I come to the infirmary with you, Hank? It might be opportune to talk to Er--Mr. Lehnsherr. He will be my patient, and honestly I'd like to clear the air considering he collapsed in my arms the last time we met."

Looking sheepish, Hank chuckled. "Yeah, I understand that. Though I really don't think he blames you for anything. If I hadn't patched him up on so many occasions after prison yard fights I think he'd be out for my blood. I've shot him quite a few times after all."

Surprised registered on his face as he followed Hank out, flicking off the lights. "Juniper has a yard?"

"Well, less of a yard and more of a naturally lit gym. It's open air, so it allows them to get some fresh air. There's only one door, and the guards stay on the outside, so that's when grudges get carried out between the inmates. Those are my busiest hours."

"I see." Nodding thanks when Hank pulled the door open for him, Charles ducked into the infirmary. He came up short when the figure cast in shadow on the first cot turned towards him. Even without light Charles could _feel_ those eyes. A light brush over his consciousness. Hank turned on the lights and Charles winced. Erik was bound by thick straps from head to toe. Though he didn't look at all perturbed. In fact, he looked like he just woke up from a nap. There was a nasty cut along the side of his head, leading from his temple to the edge of his eye. Someone had cleaned the blood away, but he definitely would need stitches.

As Hank moved about the room collecting the equipment needed, Charles approached Erik's side, pulling up a visitor's chair. "Hello, Erik."

"Hello songbird," he said. His voice was slightly raspy from sleep. He'd been dozing; figuring that after a surprise search the cellblocks would be full of outraged noise all night. Might as well grab a few winks while he could. Though now he was quite awake. He hadn't expected to see the young man any time soon. The fight would land him in solitary, and that meant no human contact for as many days as Captain Moira saw fit.

"My name's Charles," he provided, moving out of the way as Hank finally came over carrying a tray of tools. "Xavier," he added, peering over Hank's arm as the doctor brusquely checked the patient's head.

"Charles Xavier," he echoed, eyes finding Charles' blues over the doctor's starched shoulder. "It's very nice to see you again."

"Erik," Hank interrupted, "You can talk to Charles after I patch you up." He glanced up into flat green eyes.  "I can't have you moving when I'm sewing up your head."

"I suppose not," Erik murmured, looking at Charles again. His smile reached his eyes. "Can't have you slipping and taking out an eye."

"Too much paperwork," Hank agreed, dabbing antiseptic over the cut. "Okay, you ready?"

"Mmhmm," he confirmed, eyes still on Charles. When the needle broke skin he didn't flinch.

Hank worked quickly and quietly. Charles almost forgot he was there, caught as he was by Erik's intense gaze. Again, just like on the roof, he felt the world drop away. This time, however, Charles reached out with a thin tendril of his power. It lay like a veil over Erik's mind. He found the pain from the stitches and gently muffled it. The green eyes widened minutely, as if the convict knew what he was up to.

"Such a tough guy," Hank joked. "There, I'll just cut... this... right. All done. Now because it's a head wound I'm going to keep you in here tonight. You bled quite a bit they said. Unfortunately I'll have to sedate you--"

"Sedate a man with a head wound?" Charles chimed in, fixedly looking at Hank though he felt Erik's eyes on him.

"It's not what I would generally do, but the dose will be extremely low. It's either that or he goes back down where he won't be monitored."

"Ah, yes," he conceded, glancing briefly at the convict.

"Now if you could just watch him for a second I'm going to go to the supply closet to get the sedatives. Erik," he said, looking at the man. "I'm going to leave bandages off until tomorrow when you're back in gen pop. Let it get some air while there's no risk of infection. Sound good?"

"Grand," Erik said, eyes twinkling with amusement. Once the doctor had gone, he fixed all of his attention on Xavier. "Thank you for what you did, whatever it was." He cocked his head. "You're what, a telepath?"

"That is how I would be categorized, yes."

"You should've used it in the lottery," he said, grunting slightly with the effort to shift beneath the ties that held him. "You could be off rich somewhere instead of here."

"With you?" Charles hadn't meant to say it. He inwardly cursed himself.

Thin lips quirked. "Good point. I recant my statement."

 He opened his mouth to try and pacify that slip when Hank walked back in with the sedative, looking a little too pleased with himself. The syringe on the tray was filled with a copper colored liquid and Charles could practically feel the waves of disdain rolling off of the patient.

"Hey, Charles..." Alex poked his head around the corner, nodding a hello to Hank. "We found a couple office chairs for you. You should come check them out. We'll take the one you don't want back to storage and close up for the night."

"I'll be there in a second. Thank you, Alex." Looking sidelong at a clearly unhappy Erik, Charles smiled comfortingly. "Sleep well, Erik."

"Unlikely," he mumbled, earning a sour look from Hank.

As he stood up, gripping Hank's shoulder as a farewell, Erik said his name. Looking back down at the man, he cocked his head. "Yes?"

"Maybe you'll think of me? More songs to sing?"

"Unlikely," Hank cut in mockingly, rolling his eyes at Charles. "He's loopy from blood loss, don't pay any attention."

Trying to look casual while processing Erik's suggestive words, Charles furrowed his brow at Hank. "You're still sure a sedative is safe?"

"This is a new compound I've just finished," Hank said proudly, clearing the syringe with a tap the to the side of the glass. "It should reduce the side effects on the body while still achieving the intended drowsiness."

Sure that he saw a smirk curl over Erik's lip as Hank explained, Charles nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You are the doctor."

Chuckling, Hank called over his shoulder, "Night Charles!" as the psychiatrist wandered down the hall.

The chairs both ended up being quite ugly. But one was less rickety, and that was the one he took. Bidding the others goodnight, Charles returned to his dorm to find Logan dead asleep. His snores were soft, and Chares had noticed they only occurred when Logan slumbered at a certain angle. Laughing quietly, he undressed, pale skin striped by moonlight. Though it was awfully late and he had a busy day tomorrow, his mind was totally awake and buzzing.

Erik was very handsome.

Running his hand through his hair, he collapsed into bed.

Erik was a criminal.

The twanging keen of the razor wire was carried on the wind into earshot. Charles tossed and turned. Sleep evaded him like sand through fingers. Suddenly Logan's quiet snores were amplified, the razor wire outside was deafening. Charles was surrounded by hundreds of sleeping men, and the collective racket of their slumber was the low rumble of an earthquake. There was no quiet to be found. Not tonight. It may have been his ability, it may have been the way Erik's eyes had watched him over Hank's shoulder, but Charles was hyperaware of his environment. The life pulsing around him, the smell of the salty sea air. Turning onto his side, he stared at the window. Ribbons of cloud curled around the moon.

Not since he was a boy had Charles traveled, jumping from mind to mind, wandering like a spirit among the living. He never dared at the Academy in fear that someone would sense him; someone would find out and condemn him. Long ago he'd ceased to be the fly on the wall and stayed put, anchored in his own mind. But on this night distant memories of the feeling--the unimaginable feeling--of touching someone else's mind proved to be too sweet a temptation.

Closing his eyes, he reached out with hundreds of hands. Like the caress of a mother, Charles gently moved among the men. Nothing but a petal floating on the still surface of a pond. Barely there, barely felt. Understanding the boundaries, and respecting the privacy of his fellows, Charles flew blind. Unaware of faces or identities he glided along, swirling down among hallways, arcing up into the open air to soar over the ground, propelled by others' eyes staring up into the twinkling night sky. He must be inside of the groundskeepers, or even Sean up in the crow's nest. The night was beautiful. He hadn't noticed before. In this strange stillness he had no limits.

 Falling back gently, he swung through minds like a trapeze artist, dipping briefly into pools of familiar imagery before moving on. It was incredible. His chest filled with the heightened excitement that birds must feel when they fly. There was never doubt he could do it, but the fear had always stopped him. Charles smiled, his body reacting to the flashes of becoming, of ceasing, of shifting. When he settled, even for the briefest of surface seconds, he _was_ that person, sitting alongside their consciousness like a bird on a branch.

Suddenly he felt it like a beam of white-hot light, slicing across him. Charles' chest tightened. And there was Erik, lying in the cot. Not asleep, not unmoving. Not sedated. And not bound! His hands were free, though the rest of him was still tied.  Diving down into Erik's mind, Charles made himself known.

 "Erik," he said sternly, "Who released you? That sedative should've knocked you out."

Eyes darting around the room, Erik realized that Charles was _inside_ his mind. Looking down at his hands, he smiled. "Looks like you caught me. And don't be surprised, usually the doctor's testers fail miserably. It's expected."

"How did you get out of them, Erik?"

"Charles, you underestimate me." He paused, thinking. "Or overestimate the men here. The binds on my hands were done poorly. I'm somewhat of a Houdini, if you've forgotten where we first had the pleasure of meeting." The lie slipped from his mouth easily. "And I'm sure I can undo the rest of these before you, or anyone else, can get down to me."

"Erik," he hissed, "I can stop you if you try to do that. You're there for your own good."

Staring forward at nothing, Erik murmured, "I don't like being bound. I don't like being in the infirmary."

Charles felt flashes of agony and pungent fear. His body was wracked with second-hand pain. "Erik," he gasped, "Erik, what is it?"

"You... can feel that?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "I'm so sorry."

Confused, he tipped his head up. "Why?" The memories faded back, washed away by real curiosity. Being here reminded him of his past and the horrors he suffered. The horrors that made him who he is today.

"That pain... your suffering," he caught his breath. "Erik, why didn't you say anything?"  He was already walking swiftly towards the ladder, climbing down the floors of the guard dorms.

"You think it's unique? We all have pain and darkness that brought us here."

Just like Logan had said. Charles broke into a jog. "It's my job to help you work through that. I'm coming for you, please don't do anything else."

"You're coming for me?" He curled his free arm up and laid his fingers over the clasp securing the band across his waist. "I might be free by then. On the prowl. You could be in danger."

Charles didn't miss the humor, but he wasn't amused. "Erik, don't. I'll be forced to report you."

"So you can feel everything, can you?" he asked, ignoring Charles' plea. "Can you feel this?" He moved his hand over his groin, rubbing against the thin cotton fabric. He felt a strange fluttering in his mind, like a quickly inhaled breath.

Charles froze.

"What about this?" He slowly reached inside his pants and ran his fingers over his hardening cock. "As long as you're in here, all the sensation is yours, too." Biting back a groan, he stroked himself, hips arching against the feel of his callused fingers.

On his knees, Charles tried to catch his breath. His dick was stirring in his pants, mind and body alive with the feeling of Erik's pleasure. "Erik, stop," he whispered.

"I'm not breaking any rules," he argued playfully. "My hands are busy, so they aren't undoing any more of these belts. That's good, right?" He emphasized the last words with a languid roll of his hips. Knowing Charles was there with him, feeling this; it increased the thrill tenfold. "Don't let go of me, Charles," he whispered. "Stay with me and I won't escape."

He'd fallen against the wall, cutting off a moan with his hands over his mouth. His hair was standing on end, goose bumps racing over his flesh. Erik's thumb rubbed the head of his cock and Charles squirmed, pressing a palm to his erection as if he could will the feeling away. Erik would feel it if he left his mind and Charles didn't know what he would do if he escaped and had access to possible weapons. There was more he could do to stop Erik, but Charles didn't trust himself to stop Erik without hurting him. Emma's training had been thorough and esoteric--there had been nothing gentle about the tactics she taught him.

Increasing the speed of his hand, Erik moaned, thrashing beneath the binds. His other hand was between his legs, underneath. If Charles could truly feel... He pressed a finger in, curling against his own inner walls. Precum slicked his hands and Erik bared his teeth, pressing another finger in deep. He wanted Charles to feel this. Part of Erik was angry at the mental violation this represented; another part was aggressively reacting to his memories being trampled through.

Charles was staggering down the hall, closer now to the infirmary. With the fight and the raid having riled the inmates, the normal patrol that would be making rounds in these halls had been reassigned for extra manpower. Charles was thankful for that. No eyes to see him this way. He moaned, slamming his fist into the wall as Erik quickened the pace. Wetness spread across the front of his pants and Charles cursed. Yet he could not deny the strange eroticism of this mental stimulation--the academic in him filed that away for further study.

Then he felt as Erik began to finger himself. Charles stopped. He didn't want that. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

"Erik," he thought at him clearly. "Stop."

"Already told you, songbird, " Erik panted, "I won't stop."

Charles was curling on the floor, hands moving over his own body, seeking to push away the fingers and hands on him, but there weren't any there. He began to panic, flashes of the Academy storming through him, sending uncontrollable shudders racing through his body. Fear, heavy and foul, swamped his mind and Charles yelled, "Stop! Stop!"

Like a doused candle, Charles' presence blinked out. As it did Erik received a very clear, practically blaring feeling of terror. Charles.

His eyes were clenched shut, blood stinging across his lips where he'd bitten through them. Tears stung his eyes. He was still on the floor, shivering. Upon hearing a rushed set of footsteps he initially panicked, but then a whispered, "Charles!" calmed him. His attackers at the Academy hadn't said his name. Though he was nowhere near calm when he realized the arms curling around him, wrapping him in a warm embrace, were Erik's. Face pressed to the juncture of his neck and shoulder Charles could smell the fear and concern, genuine worry swirling around his mind. Relaxing slightly when he sensed no threat, Charles swallowed shakily and opened his eyes. Erik was staring down at him and for the first time Charles saw real emotion there.

"Charles?" he questioned. "I'm so sorry. I really am."

"I should be the sorry one--well, I _am_ the sorry one," he said lightly. "I should have stuck to protocol and alerted the proper--"

" _Charles_ ," Erik sighed. Something went back up in his eyes, some kind of barrier. Now when he looked down at Charles the deceptively casual amusement had returned. "I think you're forgetting our roles here. I'm the inmate. You are... Charles."

Sitting up on his own and moving a safe distance away, Charles snorted. "What does that even mean, Erik? You don't know who Charles is. And really, that's the way it should be. As for knowing you..." His face reddened and he frowned. "Well, a very clear line was crossed here tonight and I sincerely regret it."

"You don't regret all of it," Erik countered. When Charles' eyes darkened he held up his hands defensively. "I have a head wound. Remember that."

Charles chose his next words very carefully. "Then I trust you'll have suffered a touch of amnesia by morning." He tried not to see the quick flash of hurt in Erik's eyes.

"For you, songbird," he finally said, "Anything."

"Then you'll do me the service of escorting me back to the infirmary so that I may ensure you are just where Hank left you."

Charles didn't tighten the belts as much as the guards had, but Erik didn't mention it. When the psychiatrist flopped back into the chair, his face drawn, Erik said, "Charles, please don't hold what happened here over me."

Anger coated his next words, "I'd asked you to stop and you did not."

"I never touched you," he said calmly. "It was you, Xavier, who entered my mind uninvited."

"As your psychiatrist I have that right."

"Of course. And I have none."

"You don't," he snapped. "You lost them."

After a beat of tense silence Charles turned away from Erik, rising out of the chair. "I'm going to return to bed." He made it to the door before Erik stopped him.

"Charles."

"Mr. Lehnsherr, if you would kindly address me as is fitting our roles here. It's Mr. Xavier."

"Xavier," he mimicked, "Please listen." When blue eyes grudgingly rose to meet his, his tone softened. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Please believe me. Whatever you've heard, or whatever you assume, don't think that I would ever intentionally hurt you."

Despite the circumstances, Charles knew he was telling the truth. His shoulders drooped. "I do believe you. But that doesn't change the fact that we both grossly overstepped boundaries here tonight. We are both as fault, myself moreso than you."

"I only regret that I hurt you, Cha... Xavier," he said firmly. "But I do not regret the pleasure that we shared."

Heat cresting his cheeks, Charles took a deep breath, centering himself. "You're not the one who hurt me," he said, almost too quiet for Erik too hear. Then he left.

Listening to Charles' footsteps fade down the hall, Erik undid the clasps on the belts and slid from the cot. He'd wake before the doctor checked on him and make it seem as if he'd been obediently bound all night. They'd never know. No one would know except he and his little songbird. Leaning against the doorframe, Erik's eyes fell unfocused. Both of them had pain in their past. Not the kind of pain most had gone through. No, it was different. That fear he'd felt before Charles disappeared from his mind; that was a fear he'd felt before in himself. They both had suffered torment they did nothing to bring upon themselves. Erik knew that, somehow, Charles had been a victim, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the tip of the iceberg...


	4. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has his first sessions with the inmates and meets another powerful telepath, one with dark intentions. After using his attack training taught to him by Emma Frost, Charles worries he's gone too far and maybe done permanent damage to one of the inmates.

**Chapter 4: Threat**

  He'd made it a habit to take a brisk morning walk around the small island every day before breakfast. The crisp sea air combined with the melodic crying of the gulls and sea birds grounded Charles. And today of all days he needed it; today was his first series of sessions with select inmates. They'd be bringing him his first patient at 11. Hank had left the man's file on his desk. Upon opening it Charles had a momentary spell of nerves. Mojo was a high-profile criminal convicted on human trafficking charges. As Charles read deeper into the file, his gut twisted. This man had trafficked over 12,000 human beings, including children. Under heavy sedation most of the time, Mojo had still made himself a feared figure at Juniper.

Charles took a deep breath. Mojo's file felt heavy under his arm as he looked out over the water. The day had a distinctly yellow hue today. It would probably be muggy. They kept it graciously cool inside the buildings, so whatever misery the weather outside held never made it past Juniper's walls. All the same, Charles still felt warm as he sat in his office, arranging the materials for Mojo's introductory session.

Satisfied that he had everything, Charles slipped down the hall a short ways to the room that would from now on be his second home. Inside was a little bleak for his taste, but he'd fix that soon. The walls were blank beige and the only furniture was a low coffee table that had been bolted to the ground, a plushy but tired looking easy chair for Charles and the customary fainting couch. He cast his eyes over the room in clear dismay. Until now he'd just been able to look through the door's window, not realizing the dismal austerity of the room in which he was to engage with inmates. This would definitely have to change. He'd have a chat with Louise about bringing him some wall hangings, maybe plants. Certainly some nice curtains to cover the ugly blaring light punching through barred windows.

Arms akimbo, Charles frowned. Now that he saw it, this was no place to have a session. Secure or not, he refused to put his patient in such a hostile environment. What good would it do to go from their cell straight into another cell? Annoyed that he hadn't been able to get into the room until now, Charles returned to his office and contemplated the oblong shape of it. It was small, an awkwardly rounded triangle. The narrowest point was towards the door, then it widened into two distinct corners; Charles on the left and Hank tucked into the right. Drawers and file cabinets were lining the wall space between them, and a dejected looking fern looked out over the room from the top of the cabinets. There were no windows, and the artificial light was soft. There was a lamp atop a set of drawers, which stained the beige wall a smooth wine color through its red lampshade. All in all, it was a relaxing little hideaway: just the atmosphere for a possibly agitated patient to find calm and feel secure.

Decided, Charles picked up the phone and called down to Mojo's ward. Alex answered.

"Alex, when you bring Mojo up could you bring him to my office instead?"

There was blatant doubt in the voice crackling over the phone, "Um, do you know how many potential weapons are in your office, Charles?"

"I was told he would be restrained anyway?" Charles glanced up as Hank came in, waving a hello before digging around the first cabinet drawer.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Well, yeah. But --"

"Alex, the session room is abysmal. I can't believe any self-respecting psychiatrist would use it."

"You'd be the first."

Charles frowned deepened. "The first to what?"

"To use it. It's actually a holding room; either for legal visits or for death row transport to execution on the mainland. So you can understand the, uh, decor."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No wonder. But why would you suddenly change plans and change rooms. Where did we hold sessions before?"

"How do you think your last desk got demolished? It was an inmate in a session. Since then Cap'n Moira commissioned the holding room for psychoanalysis." Another sigh. "It's for your safety, man."

Leaning back in his chair, Charles waved off Hank's concerned expression. "All right, Alex. Can you please postpone Mojo's transport until half past?" He hung up before Alex could answer. Fingering his lips, Charles thought for a moment before grabbing the phone and dialing another number. Captain Moira answered in her clipped, authoritative way. Charles took a deep breath and launched into the same conversation he'd had with Alex. It went the same way, though Moira was a little more forceful.

"It's for your safety, Xavier. You might actually get somewhere with these men; I don't want to risk losing you so soon. The last psychiatrist we had--"

"I'm willing to risk my safety if it means getting anywhere with my patients. That room is counterproductive to what I am trying to achieve here," he said crossly. Hank had stopped what he was doing to take a front row seat to the show at his desk. Charles ignored him. "If I am to help them work through their issues, perhaps glean some answers to their behavior I need a place to work efficiently. I want to give them sanctuary, a place they can express their thoughts and feelings."

Captain Moira snorted. "Look, Xavier," she said, "I admire your punch, but I wouldn't hold your breath. If you can tell me how they tick, wonderful. If you can let them vent so they don't stab another inmate, fantastic. But don't think you can save them, Charles."

She hung up. Hank gave him a sympathetic look before he left. Charles glanced at the clock. Alex would be bringing Mojo up soon.

Mojo was huge. He stood almost a head taller than Alex, his face fixed in an eerily permanent smirk. Seeing him in person Charles' mouth went dry and a little voice inside of him suggested that maybe the blank room with the bolted-down furniture would be better. Then a louder voice resolutely reminded him of his job here and what he sought to achieve. Squaring his shoulders, Charles wore a carefully pleasant expression, barely resisting the urge to flinch when those menacing yellow eyes zeroed in on him. They stopped in front of the session room and Charles was able to see just how dangerous his newest patient was. Sean had mentioned to him that restraints were categorized by degree of danger. Showing Charles the storage room for Juniper's various cuffs and binds, Charles was astonished at the sheer number of devices used to restrain the mutants. And now Mojo stood in front of him, practically bound from head to foot. A flesh-colored, palm-sized patch covered the side of his pale neck. Hank was continuously working on stronger doses of the sedatives they had. The one Mojo was wearing was Class A, meaning that if administered to a normal human being weighing 160lbs that individual would undergo a seizure and possible heart failure.

Despite all this, Charles fixed Alex with a deceivingly warm smile and said neatly, "Now if you would follow me to my office, we can begin the session."

A muscle in Alex's jaw clenched; they were both aware that Charles had received no clearance to have inmates in his office. There was an awkward pause before Alex nodded, the look in his eyes angry. Charles knew that it was only out of concern for his safety, but stubborn was stubborn and Charles would not change his mind.

The guards and staff, like at any correctional facility, were warned not to undermine authority in any way. Though they may shirk said rule on their own turf, each of them obeyed strictly when inmates were present. A show of mutiny from staff could create havoc among rebellious inmates and give them the confidence to stir serious trouble. Charles shamelessly exploited this now. Alex was shooting sparks from his eyes as he escorted Mojo further down the hall, finally stopping in front of Charles' and Hank's shared office.

Mojo's eyes were flicking between the two men. He could sense the tension along the guard's shoulders. Inhaling deeply, his smile curled into something manic. The doctor was putting himself in danger. Mojo could smell the heady mix of hesitation and fear contained in the beads of sweat on the doctor's brow.

Once Alex had fastened Mojo to a chair within the office he made to post himself inside the door. Charles gave him a pointed look, but the blonde only glared back. The inmate chuckled low in his throat and Charles tried not to notice the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Alex," he said calmly, "Thank you for bringing Mojo up for his session. Now, if you would leave us alone..."

For a tense moment Alex's blue eyes burned into Charles. Part of him knew this was idiotic, but another more righteous part of him wanted to make his point. If he couldn't get that austere room fixed up to be more welcoming than he refused to host patients in it. Jaw set in a stern line; Charles raised an eyebrow at the sullen guard. When Alex finally slunk out, shooting a warning scowl at Mojo, Charles exhaled. If Alex had pressed he wasn't sure what he would've done.

"This is your personal space then, doctor?" Mojo asked smoothly. His voice was heavy and deep like the lowest note on a saxophone. That smile was fixed, eyes glittering in the soft light. Either hand was bound to the arm of the chair, as were his legs. Yet the inmate's affect made it clear that the situation was in his command. "What a treat."

"A temporary one, I'm afraid," Charles returned easily. He settled back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. Mojo's gaze followed the movement and Charles felt a momentary sympathy for his immobility. Note to self: try not to make any physical movements that the patient cannot match. "Next time we'll be in the proper session room," he said confidently.

"Is there a problem with that room?"

"Quid pro quo," Charles said, "It's my turn to ask a question."

"Fair enough, doctor," he said, eyes dancing with amusement as the smaller man asserted himself. Mojo liked that. He liked spirit. But mostly he liked crushing that spirit. It was a not so secret fetish of his that he enjoyed to specifically goad other mutants in the compound to fight. Always he'd pit some small, feisty inmate against some goon, just to see the blood fly. If the bigger mutant won, Mojo would quietly collect the wounded loser and tend to his injuries in his own way, usually by creating more serious ones. And if the underdog proved victorious over his bigger opponent, Mojo would step in to ensure that victory was short-lived. Most of the inmates, even the insane ones, avoided him. Mojo's sick pleasures threatened them and so they steered clear.

"Please," Charles intoned, "Call me Xavier."

"Xavier," he cooed, finally chuckling. He leaned forward as far as he could, eagerly inhaling the man's scent. It was sweet.

"Let's do a little exercise, shall we?" he said, pointedly not drawing back as the inmate closed the space between them by a few inches. He was still a couple of feet from him but Charles would be liar if he didn't admit that Mojo's hungry look was unsettling. "Are you game, Mojo?"

"Yes, Xavier," he practically purred, delighted when the psychiatrist sat on the edge of his seat, setting aside the papers that had been occupying his graceful hands. "But I've earned my question back, yes? Quid pro quo."

"Yes, of course."

"Are you afraid?"

Honestly he was taken aback by the question. Mojo seemed amused to no end by his thoughtful pause. "No, Mojo. I'm not."

"I get one more question. You asked two."

"Go ahead," he acquiesced, still maintaining a casual air.

"Inside of my file I believe you will find a quote from one of my..." His voice devolved into a mad giggle and the psychiatrist's blue eyes widened slightly, his visage cracking. Mojo wanted to slam his head into the floor and hurt him. "My associate," he said mockingly. Pointing to the papers, he couldn't help a Cheshire grin. "There, there. Read it, Xavier. Read those words to me?"

Eyes suspiciously dropping from Mojo's increasingly rabid expression to the page of a police report, Charles scanned the lines of text, bile rising in his throat. "Mojo," he said carefully, "Why--"

"The point of these sessions is to work through my _sickness_ , doctor. I just want you to know me. Won't that help you help me?" He lost it again, laughing loud.

Charles' voice was cold. "I can read it for myself, Mojo."

"Then go ahead, Xavier," he whispered, voice heated. "Read it to yourself, go ahead. Read it, then we'll do your little exercise, doctor."

Brow furrowed, Charles met yellow eyes and held them. He didn't need his telepathic powers to feel the excitement, dark arousal, and cloying lust the mutant was exuding. On the page was a statement recorded by the police of one of Mojo's victims. Blood running cold, Charles read the report.

Carefully turning up his mental hearing, Mojo caught the words flowing through the psychiatrist's mind, beautifully rendered in that posh British accent. He shivered, teeth bared as the counselor, head bent, went on. Mojo basked in the memories, melding Xavier's voice with the terror contained within the few short lines. The delicate curve of the man's neck made Mojo's mouth water.

He read on, mind reeling as the young child gave her statement to the police. According to the report she had sustained multiple lacerations all over her body, severe bruises around her throat, a dislocated shoulder, and... He stopped reading. High up on her ribcage, beside her underdeveloped chest, had been a brand. Like an animal she'd been branded. Beneath the report was a photo of it. Her tiny hand covered her chest modestly but the brand was in full view. An ugly thing; an MV framed by chunky wires. There was a note in the margin, _Mojoverse_. It was the name of his organization, in the typical style of a megalomaniac. Clearing his throat, Charles flipped back and went to her statement. He read slowly.

She hadn't known where she was, or even what the year had been. Tests confirmed drugs in her bloodstream and that she was severely malnourished. Her words were few but when Charles read them he could hear the tremulous voice of a small, terrified child. Again and again she asked to go home, that they please not touch her anymore. Her body was tired; she wanted to sleep. They didn't let her sleep, she'd said. They wanted her awake and it never stopped--

Letting the pages fall into his lap, Charles' eyes fell unfocused. He was quiet.

"You read beautifully, Xavier," Mojo said throatily. His hands strained against his binds, and his pupils had drowned out the yellow iris, resembling twin solar eclipses. Breath was coming too fast and he was almost lightheaded. Hearing that voice echoing inside of the counselor's surface consciousness was like a drug and Mojo wanted more of that voice. He wanted that terror Xavier had read on the page to become the man.

Eyes narrowing, Charles had to take a deep breath. Obviously his plans needed to be changed. Composing himself, Charles looked up, only slightly unnerved by the fact that Mojo had apparently heard him reading to himself. He was of course aware of Mojo's abilities.

"When you reflect on this," he started, motioning to the pages, "You don't feel regret?"

"Absolutely not, Xavier. There were thousands like her. I personally put the brand on each product that came through my lines."

"Mojo, for this session let's please refer to them as 'people', yes?"

He sensed the core of steel in that request and was almost giddy at the flash of cool anger in the psychiatrist's eyes. No wonder Lehnsherr fancied him. He was certainly _something_. "I will try, Xavier. But of course you'll forgive a few slip-ups, I'm sure?"

Charles remained silent, blue eyes moving over Mojo's face. Reaching out carefully, he attached a number of thought strands to Mojo's mind. It was buzzing, flashes of sensation, memories. Charles threw more focus into the strands and they began to catch these spare thoughts flitting around like flies in a spider's web. He'd review them later. "As long as you give it your best."

"Are you disgusted?"

 _You'd just love for me to say yes, wouldn't you_? Charles mentally snapped at the other mutant. He kept the thought carefully to himself, and threw up a few barriers to keep Mojo's feelers out. "You are my patient, Mojo."

"Vague. That's annoying."

"Well, it's not about me, it's about you."

"About me. You think you're diverting me, but I think you'd rather not do that. I asked a simple question, you see, I'm trying to make it easy on you doctor." His flesh, usually pallid, was flushed as if he'd been through physical exertion. The other inmates were boring, or too dangerous to play with. But this man had spirit and intelligence. And he had willingly put himself in danger, being alone with a highly powerful mutant criminal. Mojo loved the gutsy ones; he loved the ones with spunk. He'd personally break the products--ah, the _people_ \--that would come through his rings who displayed any fight. It was a great joy to him. The disappointment, the doused fire in their eyes. It was a sight to behold.

"I'd argue, Mojo," countered Charles, unwilling to play this game, "That I am making it easier on you. If I don't see the potential for rehabilitation than I'm afraid this, our first session, may perhaps be our last."

Mojo scowled. That was no fun. "What is it exactly that you do here, Xavier?"

"I am a counselor, Mojo."

"Yes, I _know_. But if you're here to counsel us than what does it matter if I can't be rehabilitated?  I understood that you are here to ease the tension we feel. Be our shoulder to lean on, though I imagine I won't get anywhere near enough to lean my head on your slender shoulders, doctor."

"I am here to serve those who would benefit, Mojo. Mocking these sessions doesn't exactly prove to me that you can benefit from them."

"Are you my priest, Xavier?" he bit out, eyes flashing dangerously, "Is this a confessional to lighten my soul? Ha, and without even the promise of being sodomized." He was disappointed when the psychiatrist didn't flinch. The color rose in his cheeks and the flailing sweeps of his ability lashed out at the psychiatrist. Unfortunately Xavier's mind was far too strong, and he'd been forewarned anyway. Mojo's power slid like rain off of a tin roof. "You'll see me again, Xavier. You may want to tease me with this nonsense, but I'm far too interesting a subject for your analytical mind, wouldn't you say?" Like piranhas ripping apart a larger fish, Mojo attacked the threads of Charles' power connected to his mind.

It was a sensation akin to clipping fingernails. Charles' felt each line, thin as a fishing wire, cut. They floated through the air, unattached, until he reeled them back in, watching Mojo with a renewed amount of caution. Mojo had caught him in his bluff. Though Charles' wasn't lying about the conditions, Mojo had proven himself dangerous enough and--truly--interesting enough to keep as a regular patient. There was the possibility that his power was the cause for the disarray inside that head. After viewing his file, he had concluded that the man had a warped version of Charles' own power, limited to suggestion. No doubt he could control someone if they were caught unawares. The illusionary nature of his power could have backfired in his early development, damaging some literal, logical part of his mind. As a subject, he was fascinating.

There was a sharp knock at the door and Charles jumped, frowning when Mojo made no indication of noticing the noise, wolf-like eyes practically spearing into Charles' face. Going to the door, Charles opened it to see an unhappy Alex.

"Hour's up," he said gruffly, glaring at Charles.

Instantly Charles felt guilt wash over him. "I'm sorry, Alex. I mean that. I'll talk to the Captain and no matter what happens I promise you, my friend, that I will hold sessions in the correct room."

"I'll let it slide this time cuz you're the new guy," Alex joked, brightening at Charles' apology. "I'll get him out of your hair now." His expression soured again, looking past Charles at Mojo.

As they were walking out the door Mojo stopped, his dreadlocks swinging idly when he turned his head to look directly into Charles' eyes. "Be sure to read the _entire_ file on me, Xavier. Then next time we can avoid all of this playing around and get to the--" his eyes flashed "-- _meat_ of the matter." He hissed when the guard jerked on his cuffs, pulling him down the hall with an apologetic look back at the doctor. Not bothering to look over his shoulder, Mojo could sense Xavier watching him. Widening his range, he could feel the low thrum of confusion and tension coming off the man before a solid mental wall went up. The blonde guard shot him a dark look when he chuckled. The counselor intrigued him. Maybe he'd play with him a little bit.

 

...

 

  Blue eyes widened when an hour later his next patient shouldered through the doorway. This time Charles sat in the assigned session room. He was glad he'd heeded Alex; Juggernaut wouldn't have fit into his office. Standing and moving aside as Alex shackled the inmate to the chair, Charles noticed that Juggernaut was bound tighter than Mojo had been, and had several of the sedative patches on his neck. Even with all of that in his system Juggernaut's eyes were bright enough. He knew from the file that this mutant was monstrously powerful and his capture had been a wild stroke of luck on the authorities' part. Now he spent his days masturbating and eating several times more than any other inmate.

Smiling weakly at Alex, Charles was glad to see that the guard remained outside the door. Alex might have the only ability on the whole island that could effectively stop Juggernaut. Granted, if Alex ever had to act his efforts might prove fatal. Charles quickly realized that Alex was more of a warning to the inmates as opposed to an actuality.

"Would you prefer me to address you as Cain or Juggernaut today?" he asked, adopting a casual air. The big man looked at him in seeming irritation.

"Juggernaut, little man," he said in a rough voice. "You don't know me, so you don't call me Cain."

"Of course. Well--"

"How long is this gonna take, counselor?" He shifted in his seat.

Taken aback, Charles chose his next words carefully. "As long as you need, Juggernaut."

"I want to make it in time for first lunch."

"I understand," he said, relaxing. Juggernaut was less threatening when his true intentions were revealed. If he had food and alone time he'd be fine. "Is there anything you' like to talk about, Juggernaut? This is your time."

Shrugging, the mutant was quiet for a few minutes before he spoke up, "You ever been with a woman, counselor? I get some of those flesh magazines when I'm in solitary, but man, I miss the real thing."

He very pointedly did not look the man up and down, mind instantly going to extremely inappropriate places. Although Charles couldn't help but observe that the man was super-sized everywhere that was visible... He just hoped that Juggernaut's sexual experiences had all been consensual, for the woman's sake. "It's nice that you get those," Charles said.

"Yeah," he agreed, meeting the psychiatrist's gaze. "I guess it beats bein' on the outside. There's pussy outside, but there's also trouble."

"Trouble?"

Juggernaut snorted. "Puny guys tryin' to pick fights with me to impress some dame. Then I beat their ass, get the girl... then the cops gotta come down and I need to get scarce."

Charles smiled, crossing his legs. Despite the inmate's criminal record and the impending destruction if he ever got angry, Charles had to admit he liked Juggernaut's straightforward attitude. " Do you have any family, Juggernaut?"

"Nah," he said, eyes moving to the window. "Outlived 'em all. Kind of a sob story to tell the truth."

Leaning forward to rest his chin in the palm of his hand, Charles said lightly, "We've got time if you'd like to tell it." He guessed no one had ever taken the time to listen to this man, not in years.

Dark eyes looked at him without Juggernaut turning his head. "Why do you want to know?"

Laughing, Charles set down the files, keeping his body language casual. "I like to hear about a person's history. You certainly have no obligation to tell me anything, but know that by law I am under a strict silence policy. Whatever you tell me stays here with us unless it proves to be an immediate danger to my person, or anyone else."

Blinking for a moment, Juggernaut finally faced the psychiatrist. The bright light from outside threw half his face in shadow, shining across the other half and igniting the rich amber color of his right eye. "Why would I want to talk about sad stuff? I'd rather talk about girls."

"We can talk about girls," said Charles. "But I'm going to leave the door open for you to talk about other things as well. It does no one good to keep things inside. We are made to share things with others, Juggernaut, including our sorrow."

The light shifted in his eye as he cocked his head to the side. "I've been on my own for a really long time, um... what's your name?"

"Charles Xavier."

Hesitating, Juggernaut continued, "I'm not used to sharing anything but punches, really. I'd just sound all mixed up. Things get mixed up in my head sometimes, and that's why I stick to the simple stuff, you know? Eatin', fuckin', sleepin'. Well, I guess fuckin' not so much anymore. God, I miss pussy, Xavier."

Charles sensed that he should remain quiet and did so, only nodding in sympathy as Juggernaut went on.

"I mean, when you're with a woman--hell, even if you're payin' for it--she's so soft and it feels like she's caring for you. I feel so calm, no need for this shit they put in my system here that makes me so tired." He wasn't looking at the other man, eyes cast down to his lap instead. In the blaring light of the room he could see the smudges on his prison jumpsuit. "I heard that over on some mainland prison for humans they started dressin' the inmates in pink. Can you believe that?" Xavier smiled at him and Juggernaut chuckled. "Keeps them calm or something. I could see that. This color, this... what is this?"

"That's..." Charles trailed off, finally laughing. "I'm not actually sure. Grayish--"

"Greenish--"

"Orangeish?"

They both laughed quietly, Juggernaut visibly relaxing. "Whatever the hell it is, it sure isn't calming."

"What color would you prefer?"

"You really asking?"

Charles held up his hands. "Not that I can do anything about it. I'm just curious."

The muted cries of seagulls rung out as Juggernaut pondered the question. "Blue."

"That is a calming color."

"Yeah. Not ugly like this... whatever it is." Grinning lopsided, Juggernaut sat up. "Blue was my brother's favorite color. He used to go and find the Robin's eggshells that would fall from nests and collect all of 'em."

"You lived in the country?"

"Yeah. On a farm. Me, my mom, my dad, and my little brother." A distant look entered Juggernaut's eyes. "The Robins hatched later than other birds and he'd go out and get those shells. Mom would put them in a jar with cotton strings so that they wouldn't break."

With the utmost care, Charles mentally cast a net over the surface images of Juggernaut's mind. These memories were caught and Charles drew them forward, catching any lingering connections. Juggernaut's voice dropped, growing thick as his eyes glazed over.

"Even dad said they looked nice, and he was a tough old bastard." Taking a deep breath, Juggernaut strained against his binds. Not in panic or anger, more in distraction. "My dad taught me how to fight. I knew even then I was something different, so I'd hold back. But when I got older, he'd coach me in boxing, and I got good enough to enter the ring. That was how I helped the family. I fought for money. Mom didn't know. Just my little brother and my dad. My little brother didn't like it so much; he was gentler than me. More like my mom. He liked being in nature and collecting the egg shells."

Juggernaut stopped and Charles withdrew quickly, letting the happy memories melt back into obscurity. The mutant had gone very still, and a wondrous look of surprise took over his face as a glistening tear trailed down his cheek. He looked confused.

"Juggernaut," ventured Charles, "Are you all right?'

"I... don't know." Bushy brows furrowed and Charles knew he'd better intervene before the man's emotions--ones he probably hadn't felt for far too long--got out of hand.

"You must've been some fighter," he observed.

Glancing at the smaller man, Juggernaut nodded distractedly. "Yeah, the best. No one could stop me. Met my first girl at a fight. I'd beaten her boyfriend to a pulp--I'd seen him push her around before and that pissed me off. I think she knew I was fightin' for her." Pausing, Juggernaut frowned. The heavy feeling in his chest, he wanted to get rid of it.

Charles saw all of this. Sitting on the edge of his chair, he leaned closer. "Was she pretty?"

Some of the mottled darkness in his expression cleared. "Hell yes. She was a gorgeous blonde with these big brown eyes. Man, she was tops, really."

Taking his opportunity, Charles steered the conversation into a less serious topic. "Blonde? I've always been partial to auburn hair myself." Mentally he stumbled over that admission, mind-flashing images of grayish green eyes and auburn hair.

"Hair doesn't matter, counselor," Juggernaut said seriously. "I mean, it helps. But a girl's gotta be... I don't know, caring. It's in her face; you can see it. The girls in these magazines, some of them have those caring faces and I almost feel bad that they gotta be in these magazines." He laughed, "But then again, if they weren't I couldn't enjoy 'em!" The counselor laughed with him and Juggernaut shifted in his binds again, annoyed that he couldn't move more. It didn't matter too much, though. He was enjoying himself. "You know what I think about sometimes?"

"What?"

"How there's like..." he paused, thoughtful. "Well, do you have a sweetheart, doc?"

"Me? Oh, no," he said hurriedly, mind shying around why that answer sounded so fake.

"Nobody does at Juniper. Well, some of the fags do," Juggernaut said. "Lucky them. I just can't do it myself. I don't hold it against anybody now, you need something you get it where you can." Cracking his neck, he continued, "I used to be grossed out by those guys, but some of these guys--I mean, you can _see_ it, you know? That same caring I was talking about with women. So I feel like I gotta give them credit for that, 'specially because they're not hurtin' anyone."

"That's very good of you, Juggernaut."

"Ha, you can call me Cain, doc. Go ahead."

"That means a lot to me, Cain," he said, meaning it.

Cain's eyes softened. "Yeah, it's nice to hear someone else say it."

"You deserve to hear someone say it," Charles said matter-of-factly. "It's your name, you shouldn't lose it."

"You're right. Juggernaut was my boxing name, then it followed me out when I started to get into trouble." Looking at Xavier, he smiled. "I feel like you're not judging me, counselor. I like that."

Mirroring the inmate's smile, Charles said, "That's because I'm not, Cain. And I won't, all right?"

"All right," he said happily, glancing up when there was a knock at the door. "Looks like time's up, Xavier,"

"Yes. Soon we'll establish a schedule, after these preliminary sessions. You'll be seeing me at least one a week."

"Sounds good," he said.

Charles waved as Alex and Juggernaut turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Sighing heavily, he scratched the back of his neck. Juggernaut's session countered the session with Mojo, so all in all Charles felt good. He'd type up session notes later and see about getting Juggernaut some Robins' eggshells. Might be a nice gesture. Thoughts still back in Juggernaut's memories, he didn't notice as Captain Moira rounded the corner and made a beeline for him, Hank in tow.

"Charles?" Hank looked concerned when Charles jumped. "Are you all right?"

"Bad session?" asked the Captain.

"No, no, quite good actually. I was just thinking," he said sheepishly. Seeming to realize their presence fully, he stood up straighter. "Did you need something?"

"Well--"

"I'd like--"

Both Hank and Moira looked at each other. They'd started talking at once, but Moira's sharp look silenced Hank. Looking back at Charles she said, "I'd like to establish a reporting system for the sessions. The last few psychiatrist's typed up notes, but I imagine with your ability you glean a little more."

Charles frowned, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. Juggernaut's file was tucked safely under his arm. "It said nowhere in the position description that I would be reporting on my patients. I maintain the code of silence in regards to what my patients confide in me. If I sense that any information is of importance for maintaining the safety of the staff here--"

"Xavier," Moira said coldly, "These are _not_ school children. These are criminals. Most with blood on their hands."

"That doesn't change a thing," Charles argued.

"I didn't hire a priest," she snapped.

"No, you hired a psychiatrist credited at the Academy. I took an oath upon receiving my certificate that I would uphold--"

The radio cinched to the Captain's belt crackled to life, "Prisoner 39875 has been secured." It was Alex's voice; Juggernaut had been returned to his cell. Charles looked at his watch. His next patient was due in twenty minutes. He'd need to review the file before Mister Sinister was brought upstairs.

"If we could continue this later, I need to prepare for my next patient," he said firmly. He kept his voice respectful. After all, he understood where Moira was coming from as the head of this prison and therefore the primary authority over security. "Captain?"

Though she was scowling, Captain Moira nodded sharply, turning on her heel to march back down the hall. She unclipped her radio and began barking orders into it. Charles silently apologized to the men on the receiving end of her barrage--he was sure he was the source of her agitated tone. As soon as she'd gone Charles remembered Hank and looked at his office mate quizzically.

"So, how did the sedatives work?" he asked eagerly as they waked back to the office. "Mojo's were brand new."

"I'm afraid he could still use his ability, Hank," he said, remembering the feeling of Mojo cutting at his connecting mental threads.

"Damn, I don't know how he _does_ that." Suddenly Hank jerked his head up and said, "Charles, can I ask you a favor?"

Stomach sinking, he answered warily, "You can _ask_ it."

"Will you let me test out--"

" _Hank_."

"Charles, I can't trust the inmates to be truthful about these effects. I mean, certain abilities we can test and see if it works, but with mental powers I...." he deflated.

Sympathizing, Charles took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'll help you out but I need a guarantee, Hank, that you--um-- _they_ won't cause any lasting damages."

"They haven't so far!" he quipped brightly.

"I suppose then I can take a few hours a week, but just in case I must ask that we schedule when I will have at least 24hrs until my next session."

"I can arrange that," Hank promised fervently. Incorrectly interpreting Charles' look of dismay as one of excitement Hank went scurrying back to the lab, a definite spring in his step.

"My god, what have I done," Charles groaned. Then he grumbled, "I know exactly what I've done. I signed myself up to be a lab rat. Lovely." In the few minutes he still had before Mister Sinister was brought up, Charles hastily scanned the mutant's files. His eyes widened. Wonderful, particularly in light of his and Hank's conversation: a telepath with schizophrenic tendencies. Feeling downright sorry for himself, Charles checked his watch and decided to run down to the cafeteria to grab a snack. On his way he nearly ran headfirst into Sean. The redhead was barreling down the hallway, looking pale.

Catching the man, Charles was startled when Sean grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along. Sean didn't bother to slow down as he started to speak: "Got a situation, Charles. Someone ticked off Sinister and now he's getting inside everyone's heads. He usually is pretty subdued, but whatever happened set him off. I'm going to try and mix him up with some banshee magic, but you'll need to be there." Grabbing his radio, he yelled into it, "Found him, we're on our way!" The other end of the line was a mass of crackling and muddled voices. Charles picked up the pace and soon he and Sean were hurtling down the stairs. In a few minutes they'd be in the insane ward.

When Charles saw Darwin and Alex _outside_ the wing, he knew that he'd need to be on guard.

"Looks like he can't get to you if he can't see you," Darwin panted, and Charles could see the blood glittering freshly in the lowlight from a cut along his eye. "We can't risk him using us so we've been out here. Everyone's locking down the rest of the cellblocks to isolate the trouble."

"Got it," Charles said abruptly, coming up close behind Sean as the redhead peeked through the window. The mutant was standing in the middle of the room with arms outspread. The other inmates were writhing on the ground or using furniture as battering rams to hit at the doors and enforced windows.

"How're we gonna do this, Charles?" Sean asked, eyes darting all over the room.

"Create as much chaos as you possibly can," he said, "And then I'll take the first opportunity to get into his mind and..." He didn't know what he'd do, but that was the only plan they had for now.

"Roger that," Sean confirmed, "I'm gonna need to get in there and fire off a couple before he can lock onto me. If he gets me, just knock me out." His face was stony. "He could use me to bust the windows."

"Got it," said Darwin. "On three."

"One," said Alex, "Two... THREE."

Sean shoved through the door and opened his mouth. It was as if the world got swept up into a strange smothering bubble. But after a split second Sinister roared in rage, clutching his ears. That was when Charles acted. There was no shape to his attack, but it could be described as a venomous harpoon that speared into Sinister's mind, twisting like a hook to tear and rip at his consciousness. It didn't give the mutant time to react or put up defenses as Sean continued to rend his hearing. At the first sign of blood running from the inmate's nostrils, Charles pulled back. Sean quieted and the entire room went silent. The other prisoners seemed to come back to themselves, all staring dumbfounded at Sinister as he lay crumpled on the floor, eyes completely blank. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth and the blood from his nose caught in his mustache.

He'd ducked down, thinking just in time that it wouldn't be good for morale if the prison counselor was seen by potential patients as the man who had just made mincemeat of a dangerous telepath's attack. Slinking away, Charles nodded an affirmative at Darwin, who seemed to understand. In moments the block would be swarming with personnel, and Charles didn't want this spreading. He knew he'd have to report to the Captain later, and he just hoped that the damage to Sinister could be undone.

 

...

 

"Man, what did you _do_?" Alex asked. The four of them--Alex, Darwin, Sean and Charles--sat waiting outside the Captain's office. Charles shifted uncomfortably, shooting the blonde a look as Logan walked in with a tray of coffee.

"I heard Sinister's out for the count," he said, looking at them curiously. "Hank just spent some time on him, but man. I saw him; it's like he got a freakin' lobotomy or something."

Charles went pale. "Th-there's no response?"

"Well, Hank's got him doped up like crazy so it's not like he'd respond anyway." He ignored Charles collapsing back in his chair, looking ill. "Aftermath aside, do you even know what got him started? He's been such a model citizen lately."

Darwin shrugged. "No clue, man. I was escorting Mojo back to solitary--"

"Mojo?" interrupted Charles.

"Yeah, he gets to be in gen pop every now and then, keeps him a little less insane to be out and teasing the other inmates. They know to ignore him, so it's usually fine." Titling his head back to rest against the wall, Darwin added, "Wasn't very active today though. He just sat there like he was in meditation. He came quietly when it was time to go back to his cell, then next thing I know Sinister's going ape-shit. Though, now that I think of it, Mojo was laughing the whole walk back." Frowning, he picked up his radio and stared at it. "Then he said that I should check my radio. Not a second later Alex came over the line."

"What, you think he was involved?" asked Logan, pulling up a chair and perching backwards in it, arms resting along the back. "But Hank had him under--"

"Not quite," Charles cut in. "His powers aren't as subdued as he would have you all believe. Hank had suspicions that Mojo was somehow covering up the ineffectiveness of the drug. And in the session I felt his powers--they're functioning."

"Holy hell," Logan breathed. "So what does that mean? He influenced Sinister?"

Moira's door opened abruptly to reveal her scowling face. "Can we please discuss all of these theories _inside_." It wasn't a question. All of them, Logan included, scampered obediently into her office. There they found a rather stunned Hank.

"So it didn't work at all on Mojo? I know you said you felt his powers, Charles, but if I overheard correctly, you think he was at enough power to influence Sinister?" Put out, he moped silently in his seat while the others either sat or leaned against the wall.

Moira grumbled something about the thinness of her door as she reseated herself at her desk. The shades were drawn, leaving them all striped with light like a group of zebras. She looked directly at Charles and said, "I hope you understand better now why I would like detailed reports on your sessions, Charles."

"Before my lecture," he said, trying to keep his tone civil, "I think we should find out what happened down in the cellblock.

"Mojo couldn't influence Sinister unless Sinister's mind was somehow compromised," Hank said thoughtfully.

"Mojo knew something was going to happen. And I know that guy; he was being _way_ too quiet during his time in gen pop," Darwin pointed out. "Now that I'm looking back, he easily could've been focusing on something."

The Captain rested her chin in her hand, tapping her lips. "I'm waiting on the security tape now. We'll play back the footage in the foyer and see what we can find."

When the tape arrived Moira put it in the player and sat back. She fast-forwarded through footage until Sinister came into view. They all leaned in to watch. There was no sound on the tape, but it was easy to see that as soon as Sinister walked into the main room inmates approached him. Several big men surrounded him. Charles squinted; none of them were talking, at least from what he could see. But Sinister spoke; he saw his lips moving. When one of the men grabbed the mutant Sinister shoved him, but the others closed in. Charles suddenly felt that sick oil and water feeling in his stomach as sweat beaded over his brow. The men who had grabbed Sinister were hauling him off, holding him down. One of the men ripped at Sinister's jumpsuit, tearing it down his shoulders. Another grabbed him between the legs and that was when the mutant finally acted in his defense. Sickened, Charles had to shut his eyes as memories were instantly triggered. Suddenly the room was too hot and he needed air. He yanked at the collar of his shirt, undoing several buttons.

"Jesus, they look like they were gonna take him and..." Alex stopped, swallowing. "Jesus. I mean, I know it goes on," he reasoned, glancing up at Darwin, "But right out in the open like that?"

Darwin paused the tape as Sinister threw his hands out, mouth wide open in an obvious bellow. "That's when Alex signaled me over the radio. And not a second before Mojo told me to check it. But it doesn't make sense. Those inmates who went after Sinister know better. Hell, _everyone_ in that block knows better than to mess with him."

"Then why would they do it?" Sean asked. He glanced at Charles, who was panting and sweating in his chair, brow knitted. "Charles?"

They all looked at him and Logan came forward, but Charles flinched away from him. "I need to... I need air." Understanding was in Logan's eyes and he hauled the counselor up, taking him out of the room.

"We'll be back in a minute," he said dismissively. Outside Logan fanned Charles with some papers, obviously worried. 'Hey, c'mon, doc. Calm down." He knew better than to touch Charles as the counselor struggled to center himself. Mouth twisting, he had a suspicion that the tape had triggered something in the other man. "It's okay."

Getting his breathing back under control, Charles found Logan's face and focused on it, using the familiarity as an anchor to come back fully to himself. Back against the wall, he took one deep breath before uttering a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry, I--"

"No need to explain, Xavier," he said kindly. "Do you think you can go back in?"

"Yes," he said weakly, swallowing. "Yes."

"Charles?" Moira looked both worried and annoyed as he walked back in with Logan at his back. "What the hell was that?"

"Nothing," he lied. "Just a dizzy spell."

She seemed to accept the explanation. "If Sinister's current state is anything to go off of, you just used a lot of energy all at once. Maybe you need to go rest up."

"Ah, yes," Charles agreed, face flushing. "Hank, can you tell me anything about Sinister? Is he all right?"

"He's stabilized," he answered. "I honestly think he's just in shock right now. I'm not worried, so you shouldn't worry."

"What exactly did you do, Charles?" Moira asked.

"To put it simply, I shoved a mental battering ram through his attack," he said, voice delicate. "My target was the current of telepathic force, but his brain may have been effected."

"Hmm," she said, not seeming too concerned. "Well, if Sinister ends up being a vegetable I'm not sure I'd mourn it."

Charles chose to stay quiet, stomach twisting at the implication.

"Now to get back to the issue at hand--why the hell would inmates who were up until this point scared of Sinister assault him?"

"Especially _that_ way," Sean muttered.

"I-I think Mojo may have played a direct role," Charles said, keeping his breathing under control. He wanted to get off the subject of the would-be result of Sinister's attack and instead devote efforts to solve the mystery of its source. "If my theory is correct, Mojo used the power of suggestion--and imagery--to convince those men to attack Sinister."

"Is there evidence to support that?" Moira looked dubious. Even if mutants on a daily basis surrounded her, Charles figured certain things would still seem far-fetched.

Standing, Charles looked at Darwin, "Has Mojo ever started a fight?"

"On the surface, no," Darwin answered slowly, "The other guys always throw the first punch. But when we question them later they insist he started it."

"Not that they'll give any other info on exactly _how_ he started it," Alex added ruefully.

"The last time Mojo was involved in a fight--who was it with?"

"What, you want to question him?" Darwin asked.

"Yes. If I can ask them how Mojo antagonized them I can perhaps figure out how he was able to drive those inmates." He looked between the other faces in the room. "So who was it? Who was the one to last one involved in a fight with Mojo?"

Darwin crossed his arms and traded a look with Alex.

"Erik Lehnsherr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely took some liberties with Mojo's character. In the TV series canon he's very screechy and whiny. I had intended to make him this way, sort of a sidekick to Mister Sinister, but Charles' session with him took on a life of its own and what resulted was a darker, more cunning insane version. He's based more on this canon version of his character: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mojo_(comics)#mediaviewer/File:Uncanny_X-Men_461.jpg
> 
> Juggernaut's character is based on the Last Stand version. So, unlike in the comic, he is in no way related to Charles.


	5. Naiveté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which drama ensues between Charles and various people, and there's heaps more titillating sexual tension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay--it was unacceptable and will not happen again!!

**Chapter 5: Naiveté**

 

Gray-green eyes were stormy when Charles entered the room. He winced when Erik stared hard at him, the firm set of his jaw belying the tension eating at his countenance. The guard whose name Charles couldn't remember at the moment - dazed as he was by his and Erik's unexpectedly close proximity - asked him if he wanted the door shut.

"Yes," Charles answered, eyes not leaving Erik's.

He waked slowly towards the inmate, the excitement of solving the mystery of Sinister's attack diluted by the pregnant silence heavy in the room. Clearing his throat, Charles sat down primly across from him. He heard Erik shift, the tiny clink of the metal cuffs deafening in the quiet while Charles shuffled the papers in his hands.

"I wasn't aware I was to see the good doctor today," Erik said, his tone deceivingly light. The sun ignited the doctor's blue eyes so that they were pale as glass shards. They shone out of his slender face, which was clean and white under the sun's harsh glare. Charles looked at him for a moment too long before clearing his throat again.

"Are you aware of the assault that occurred earlier?"

Erik sat up straighter, ears piqued. "Assault?"

"Yes. I'm afraid I can't discuss the details, but I wanted to ask you about another incident that could possibly be related to this one."

His eyes narrowed slightly. There was a slight blush cresting the psychiatrist's cheeks. Erik cocked his head. "What incident, Xavier?"

"The one that gave you that lovely set of stitches, " he murmured, nodding towards the wound. Now the inmate's expression shifted into something totally unreadable. Charles took a deep breath. "I'd like to know, Mister Len-"

"My name is Erik," he said flatly.

Charles pursed his lips. To his right he could see the guard standing outside, peering in. Though it was for security he only hoped the guard was unable to hear them. "I thought you understood that we should not -"

"What happened between us cannot be erased," he whispered vehemently, eyes darting to the door then swinging back to the psychiatrist's face. "Don't play the shrinking violet, Charles. I don't care that my rights have been stripped from my person, it was _mutual_ violation if you are intent on thinking of it that way -"

" _Erik_ ," he snapped. "I am here about your involvement in the incident that resulted in your stay at the infirmary." The words bit at the air harshly and Erik's eyes showed a flash of hurt before going deceptively flat.

"It's too stuffy in here," he observed.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Charles said tightly, "Oh?"

"Much too stuffy. Feel like I can't breathe." He made a show of blinking invisible sweat out of his eyes and shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't recall too much - I'm very sensitive to atmospheric pressures."

"Atmospheric - good lord, Erik," Charles groaned. "Why is it that when something is truly urgent you decide to act like a child?"

" _I_ am the child? Charles, only a child would pretend like something didn't happen when it very well did. If you really want to play that game then I suppose the amnesia you prescribed me also includes this _incident_ you speak of." Smugly regarding Charles as the psychiatrist's face flushed, Erik couldn't help but grin widely.

A sharp click cut the tension and Charles jerked his head towards the door.

"Is everything all right here?" The guard wasn't looking at Charles; instead he was shooting Erik a suspicious glare.

And in the ringing silence that followed as Charles considered whether he should just find another, more cooperative inmate to grill about Mojo, he heard Erik's voice whispering at the edges of his mind. That happened often around other people until Charles either wiped the sound away or focused on it. Deciding to hear the mutant out, Charles listened without turning his head.

_'You're talking about Mojo. He did something, right? Charles, I know the answers you want to hear. Don't send me away.'_

"We're fine," Charles said. "Thank you."

_'We want to go to the roof.'_

He glared at the other man and sent a very clear message back. _'Don't you try to pull mind tricks with me, Erik_.'

_'It's too stuffy in here.'_

"Um?" The guard frowned at the silent exchange. The two men were staring at each other intently, their expressions communicating a full conversation, though he wasn't aware of either of them talking.

 _'Do you know what happens if I help you? The other inmates won't take kindly to it. I'm putting myself in danger for you, Songbird_.'

 _'Not my name, Erik.'_ Mulling over Erik's sensible point, he finally sighed. _'I will acquiesce. It better be worth it. And I can't stop them if they want a guard posted up there with us.'_

The guard actually fingered the trigger when Erik Lehnsherr loosed one of his fabled grins, every tooth visible and eerily sharp.

Charles sighed, brow knit as he didn't break his gaze from Erik's face. "I would request that we move this to the roof."

This odd appeal took a second to sink in. "Sir? I don't think that would be very secure."

"Oh, it will," Charles chirped, suddenly seeming brighter. "We'll just chain him good and tight to one of the steam vents." _'Nice and snug'_ he added with a smirk. The shark-like grin faded from Erik's face and Charles smothered a chuckle.

 

...

 

"Cute," he grunted, rolling his eyes as the psychiatrist chortled at his discomfort. His back was pressed against the column of the steam vent, hands bound above his head. "Isn't this a bit inhumane, Charles?"

"Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. Anyway, it's either that or you get tied to one of the pulley holds, which would have you kowtowing."

"You sure you wouldn't like that?" Expression _very_ clear about his feelings on the matter, the psychiatrist sat cross-legged in front of Erik. They were about three feet apart, but the inmate couldn't help but marvel at how the natural light surrounding them infused Charles' blue eyes with a hue of near-alien intensity. "Did you get your eyes from your mother or father?"

"Not exactly pertinent, Erik," he lectured, unable to keep a small blush from spreading over his cheeks. "If we can please settle business first-"

"And then pleasure later," he snarked, having fun with the colors of Charles face. Just like the first day he'd heard him sing, the psychiatrist was a beautifully arrayed bouquet of blue, red and white. Juniper's harsh lighting washed the color away like a seeping beige stain. That was the true source of Erik's irrepressible desire to scale the walls and be in the full sun. To see beyond the vague stretch of horizon seen from ground level and catch sight of dancing clouds kissing the line where sky meets the sea.

"Please," he beseeched the inmate, "There's more to be done and despite your apparent impression that I have ample amounts of free time-"

"One of your patients is in the infirmary. Doesn't that free up time?"

"How did you know that?" he asked sternly. Before, in the session room, Erik gave no indication of knowing about the attack.

"I know more than you do, Charles," Erik said cryptically. "But I'm going to be honest with you now. Being on this roof is only worth so much information. I try to avoid trouble with the other inmates. What happened to Sinister..." As he trailed off, Erik couldn't help but sweep his eyes over the psychiatrist, trailing over his brown hair, tweed jacket and then under to the sky blue sweater covering a crisp white shirt. "You're getting into dangerous territory."

"Mojo."

He nodded solemnly. "This incident," he started, glancing up to indicate the stitches on his head, "is nothing new. What he did to me he's done to others to incite conflict. For fun. That's the just the way he is. But with Sinister." A shadow crossed his face. "None of us knew he was capable of that."

"Erik," he said carefully, subconsciously leaning forward. The cement was cold under his palm. "I need you to tell me what you know. If we don't get to the bottom of this and he does something _worse_ -"

"But how will you prove it?”

“That depends,” he mused, fingering his lip, “on what you tell me. Erik, why did you throw the first _physical_ punch?”

Curling slightly into himself, Erik dropped his eyes and stared hard at his knees. “He put images in my head.”

“What images?” Charles' voice was slightly breathless. He _knew_ it, he knew Mojo had that ability.

Still not looking at him, Erik huffed, “Does it matter? The fact is that he put those images in my head. I punched him to stop them.”

“Do you think Mojo is capable of coercing someone into doing something using these mental images?”

Now Erik bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth. “I think so. Have you spoken with the inmates who went after Sinister.”

He deflated slightly. Before visiting with Erik he’d gone with Hank to check over the attackers. When he’d looked into their minds it was a confusing jumble of fear and flashes of the attack. Like a scratch on a record, he couldn’t get a clear signal. “They both swear they don’t know a thing and are feigning a lapse of sanity.” His eyes snapped up. “The one thing I am absolutely clear about is that they were terrified. I honestly believe they don’t know what happened or how, but I also suspect they have an idea.” Leaning back to run a hand through his hair, Charles added, “One of the guards also reported that he was very quiet beforehand.”

“Concentrating.” Their eyes met.

“You think so too?”

“That still doesn’t answer why he would bother with the whole in the first place.” He caught the minute flicker of trepidation in Charles’ face. “You’re not saying something.”

He laughed humorlessly, fingers back at his mouth, running over them as he stared off into space. “I think it was a test.”

“A test?”

“For me.” The inmate went silent at those words and Charles looked up grimly. “I’m afraid out last session was rather tumultuous.”

“He wants to hurt you?”

Charles’ eyes widened in surprise at the severity of the black tone that delivered those words. “I don’t think the intent to harm is personal. I do think that he wants to play. This recent trouble has me convinced that Mojo’s abilities have been grossly underestimated due to his own steadfast stewardship towards that idea.” He was speaking more to himself than to the inmate, the thoughts tumbling into cognizance at a dizzying rate. “I need to get back.”

Unknowingly arching towards the brunette when he realized he was leaving, Erik asked, “What can be done if he’s that powerful?”

Charles was already standing, signaling to the guard. The guard disappeared over the edge to arrange the escort. “I’m sorry, Erik. I fear that - yet again - I’ve overstepped a boundary with you.” He paused. “Now, Erik, I want you to remain calm.”

Something flipped in his stomach and he was sinking into those blue eyes. “Yes, Charles?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe what you’ve told me.”

And that’s when Erik felt the strange slip, like silk over his hair, of Charles pulling from his mind. Then he felt a slight push and all of a sudden the vivid image of Charles – red, blue, white – began to fade. The words they’d just spoken began descending into a drawing whirlpool of echoes. He thrashed, shaking his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Erik, as an inmate you cannot be privy to classified information.” His face twisted slightly in pain. This was against his moral code, but Moira had been adamant. “I’m sorry, Erik.”

“Don’t,” he growled through clenched teeth. “ _Charles_. You have no right! You can’t just erase my memory!”

His gut twisted, feeling sick as he flexed his mental fingers, finding and plucking out the words nestled in Erik’s mind that came from his own mouth.

“Stop,” he begged, deeply disturbed not only by the sensation but the very fact of what Charles was doing to him. The metal at his wrists began to heat up.

Stumbling back, Charles cut off the extraction. His eyes were red-rimmed. He couldn’t do it, not when Erik begged him not to. Charles would never ignore someone the way he was ignored when he had begged. Clutching his stomach, he dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry, Erik. I’m sorry.”

"I might just be an inmate,” he bit out, “but my thoughts are my own, even if you are part of them. My mind is private." The metal cooled around his wrists, but his glare was still seething.

Taking a shaky breath, willing away the nausea, Charles said, “I have a job at Juniper, Erik. My abilities come into that.”

“So the other night,” he hissed, “Was just you doing your job?”

"What was I supposed to do, Erik? You _were_ posing a threat. Was I supposed to let a criminal finish his escape because you consider it rude?"

"Don't kid yourself, Charles,” he said meanly. “You sought me out."

"I did not-"

"You _did_. Out of the hundreds of minds, you found mine.”

“If you are implying that I targeted you, you are seriously mistaken,” he snapped waspishly. “I touched many minds that night.”

“I see,” Erik snarled, raising his voice. “So it’s not only me you seem to have no boundaries with. You just parade around our minds like some mental rapist.”

He was angry. He was _so angry_. "H-how dare you--" he choked, vision blurring into red as he glared at Erik. "You have no idea what you're talking about, you have no _right_ \--" The world tilted, rage like he'd only felt once washed over him; after his attackers left him bleeding and beaten on the floor. Blood, their fluids all over him. As his spine screamed, his inside torn to shreds, Charles had felt the stirrings of the blackest rage so strong that he’d passed out. Now it was growing in him again – to be accused of the same monstrous act - how _dare_ he.

Erik was about free himself, concern for the other man overwhelming the anger he felt. Charles’ face was twisted into such an agonized look out of outrage that Erik was afraid he’d burst. But then a voice rang out and Erik sunk blankly back against the vent as three guards ran to Charles’ side, arms sliding around him to steady the slender body as he swayed. Clenching his jaw, Erik watched them lead the man away, his faint protests lost to the wind.

Though Erik mentally called out to him, hoping that somehow their minds would connect, Charles didn’t look back.

 

…

 

When the black hood was thrown over his head, Mojo knew his little gamble had paid off. The sweet little doctor was _good_. What he didn't count on was being pushed into a human-sized dumbwaiter and lowered down what felt like hundreds of feet. The guard standing next to him undid his binds to the point that he could walk and maybe scratch an itch, shoving him unceremoniously off the platform. Then the crank of the dumbwaiter resounded eerily off wet-sounding walls and Mojo ripped the hood from his own head.

Yellow eyes shown with cat-like brilliance in the dark. He stared up into pitch black, a swaying gray smudge the lift's shadow high above his head. Mojo looked around him. If he wasn't mistaken, he'd been put in the bottom of a goddamn well. Wrath flaring, Mojo threw back his head and bellowed, his voice warped and thrown to inhuman heights as the walls embraced and shattered his cry. Still, the name was unmistakable as it rang out like the low foreboding toll of a bell.

"XAVIER!"

 

...

 

"You think I'm upset with you," Sinister observed casually, clipped accent posh and haughty. "Though most would agree I have every right to be, I must say that being away from the rabble has somewhat been a relaxing experience, Xavier."

Charles cracked a smile. "I'm glad to hear that Mr. S."

"My own company is much preferred to those other miscreants. And I get pudding." He held up the cup, which he was happily eating out of. His arms trailed IVs and his head was wrapped in gauze, but Mister Sinister appeared nothing but content. "You know," he said wonderingly, spoon halfway to his mouth, "I always requested solitary confinement. But this is much, much better."

At first Charles had been concerned about this upbeat attitude. If his file and record were anything to go by, Mister Sinister was a narcissistic nihilist. Maybe a knock to the head is what we all need, Charles thought jokingly. Of course, he'd given Sinister a knock _inside_ his head.

"And though I find myself luxuriating - as much as one could - there is a certain clinging doldrums about the place."

This time he gave an audible chuckle and reminded the mutant, "This is a prison, Mr. S."

"A mutant prison, yes. And the mutants don't even get books," he finished morosely. "Though that would be the antidote for this depressing state."

Charles ran through his memory and realized that he hadn't seen any sort of recreational outlets for the inmates besides the yard and the occasional class. And as far as Darwin had told him, the classes were only ever short lived.

 "I would argue that books would be far more appreciated here than in a human prison," Sinister continued wanly, "where reading is a grudgingly accepted form of entertainment. After all, we as children were much more prone to shutting ourselves away to read than normal children. Characters in stories are always just a bit more special than the average person. Like we are." Sinister's expression was thoughtful as he considered the spoon of pudding freshly scooped from the container. "I was never given pudding of this caliber downstairs."

"So, is it books you want?" Charles asked. Soft beeping from the machines monitoring Sinister's vitals was his only answer as Sinister close his eyes, apparently deeply savoring his pudding. "Mister Sinister?"

"Hmm. Yes, is that asking too much? The only books I've seen since coming here are from Juggernaut's collection." Pausing, Sinister's crimson eyes moved over Charles contemplatively. "He likes you. I saw him on his way back, smiling. Though don't take that the wrong way, the gentle giant prefers the fairer sex."

"I wasn't worried," he assured the mutant with an easy smile.

A certain sharpness was in Sinister's gaze as he said his next words. "It is kind of you not to directly question me about my attack, Xavier. But I am no shrinking violet. Nor am I stupid." Another spoonful of pudding occupied him while Xavier reacted. The young counselor had leaned forward slightly and Sinister stole a glance down the gap between the collar of his shirt and his shallow chest. He'd just been curious - ah, no chest hair.

"Can you tell me what you mean?"

"You are aware that I am also a mutant with telepathic abilities?”

Charles’ mouth lifted in a smile. “Not just that.”

Looking pleased by the implied praise, Sinister hummed, tapping his lips with the spoon. “I can listen, Xavier." Settling back into the bed cushions, Sinister held up the now empty pudding container. Xavier hesitated then took it from him, rising to toss it into the wastebasket. "A part of me fears I’ve become the mother who cannot handle her brood. You see,” he continued matter-of-factly, “I’ve built myself into the mutant I am today. Since I was a young man - organically young, not as I am now - I’ve been perfecting my personal menagerie, if you will. Of course, we all must meet capacity some day.”

“And have you?” he asked. Sinister’s pale skin stretched with a wan smile.

“I’m here, aren’t I? It’s a sad story, maintaining my youth requires so much energy that my other abilities have suffered. I’m battling time. Unlike mutants with originally sourced regeneration, I am living on a second-hand version.” Sighing, his eyes moved over the IVs trailing from his arms. “Everything is still inside of me, as you saw I am sure. Yet if I should tap into those powers and summon the energy required, I am left like this.” He chuckled. “Not that your quite impressive attack did not aid in my presence here.” His laughter grew until he coughed, hands going to his head. “I should be thanking you, Xavier. Now all of my _peers_ believe I was just caught off guard. I much prefer that embarrassment to the rather dangerous knowledge of the truth: that I am too weak now to sustain an active defense. Fear does an efficient enough job.”

“No one will know,” Charles promised him, “It would probably hurt security more than help if the other inmates knew about it.”

“That, however, does not keep me from playing the fly on the wall." Closing his eyes, he said, "You have an interesting theory that it was Mojo who orchestrated this little stunt."

A chill went down his spine. Who knows what else Sinister had been privy to within Juniper's walls. Swallowing uncomfortably, Charles narrowed his eyes in thought at Sinister. The man gave no indication of anger or urgency. "We have not confirmed anything as of yet."

"Please don't think me some brute that will go out of my way for revenge," he said, opening his red eyes again. The medicine pumping through him was making him drowsy. "I'm far too feline for such a thing."

Cocking his head to the side, Charles glanced at Sinister's vital signs. They indicated he was stable. But Charles had become worried again about his mind. "Are you down on lives?"

"Oh no, I meant curiosity. You see, mine is strictly feline. I'd like to see how all of this plays out, Xavier." His words nearly slurred, posh Victorian cadence relaxed from the drugs. "It's not as if I have any better source of entertainment."

"Ah yes, the books," Charles said, nodding. His gut was twisting. How much did Sinister know? "I'll try and set something up with the Captain."

  "Taking up the cause, are we?" he asked, voice nothing but a sleepy murmur. "Don't become a martyr, dear doctor. I can think of a couple of inmates who would be _very_ sorry to see you go." Like a light going out, the vibrant red of Sinister's eyes glazed over and he slipped off into a drug-induced sleep.

Charles stared at the sleeping mutant, mind buzzing. Biting his lip, he craned his neck to see out the hall. Empty. He let out a whoosh of air, nervous shivers racing over his skin. If Sinister wasn't bluffing, Charles could be in serious trouble. Erik, also. Frowning when he thought of the other man, Charles gave himself a shake to clear his mind before placing two fingers on his left temple. Then he reached out and did the same to sinister with his other hand. And as he had done with Erik--or had begun to do--Charles gingerly reached into Sinister's vulnerable mind and started to strategically tidy up his thoughts and memories. The guilt gnawed at his gut, but the overwhelming drive to protect... what? Himself? ...Erik? Grimacing, he moved like an erasure over a blackboard filled with chalk markings, smudging here and there to make the writing unintelligible.

 

...

 

Logan was playing a rousing game of tic-tac-toe against himself when Charles poked his head into the office. "Hey, doc," he grunted, foiling himself and ending in a cat's game. Not bothering to look up as the young man came up to his desk, Logan began another game next to the first. This time he'd beat himself for sure.

"Is Moira in?" Charles asked, leaning sideways to see the makeshift game board Logan was so carefully drawing with the aid of a ruler. "I always like to start in the center space on any of the outer sides."

"Tic-tac-toe is a game of instinct, not smarts," Logan insisted passionately, drawing his Xs and Os with gusto. "You need to let the squares speak to you."

"Suit yourself. I'm just going to slip in to see her then?"

"Have at it, Xavier. I'm off in a minute anyway."

Moira was seated at her desk, meticulously poring over budget reports. Idly she picked at a lunch of mashed potatoes and certified mystery meat. When Charles entered after a soft knock, she put down the reports and her spork, focusing all her attention on him. "Charles? How was your visit with Sinister?"

A pang of regret wheedled at his mind, but he resolutely pushed it away. "Fine, much better than I expected. Though I actually had another subject I wanted to discuss."

Not even ten minutes later Moira was shaking her head. "I'm not sure where you got the idea that we have either the space or the funds for this venture of yours."

"It just seems a bit _unbalanced_ that there is so much here for the guardsmen and next to nothing for the inmates themselves," he argued. "I'm sure it would do a great deal to raise Juniper's morale."

"So would filet mignon. And dancing girls. Look, Charles," she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "You seem to have a lot of room in your heart for the inmates here, but we just don't get much of a budget to make their lives interesting." Considering her mashed potatoes before taking up the spork and stabbing a glob of it, Moira reminded Charles that Juniper was the only facility that not only housed prisoners, but the guards too. "As far as quality of life goes, Charles, the guards are the priority. They've done nothing wrong, remember?" she added with an amused twinkle in her eyes.

"I understand that," he agreed. "That is why I am willing to do this on my own. It won't cost Juniper a cent. If there are costs I'll cover them."

Frowning, Moira drew jagged lines through her potatoes with her utensil. "Though zero cost to Juniper is music to my ears, there's too much red tape around the idea of a staff member paying out of pocket for a service at our prison."

Expression unwavering, Charles leaned his hands on the desk. "I promise, the books will be donations. I think everything else that we'll need is already lying round the place," he assured her, thoughts flying to Louise. If materials weren't already here, she could bring them and no one would be the wiser.

Her expression was doubtful, but Moira smiled nonetheless. "I can't find any reason to tell you not to try, though I will have to personally approve each book in the collection. Also, this remains under wraps until it is a viable project, pending my approval."

"Of course," he gushed, excitement building in his chest. "So is this a yes?"

"No, it's more of a vote of confidence," she said. "I'll need to see what you can do before I confirm anything, do you understand? I mean that _everything_ will have to be figured out _before_ I can give you my stamp of approval. I'll also have to run this by Commissioner Stryker."

Careful to keep the look of distaste off his face, Charles gave the Captain a tight nod. Stryker was a notorious anti-mutant pundit. Really it was no wonder the mutants had next to nothing with which to fill their days. If it had been up to Stryker, mutants everywhere - innocent or not - would be locked up and left to rot.

"I see," was all he let slip past his lips, fighting to keep the rest of his thoughts in his head where they couldn't do any damage. "That's a perfectly reasonable process."

"Oh, and Xavier?" Moira had shoved the potatoes to the side of her mouth to keep her voice intelligible. "I'll tell you this now; unlike other prisons, you shouldn't bother providing legal text for the inmates." Her expression was carefully impassive. "There are no loopholes they can possibly find. They're mutants."

Gut clenching, Charles could easily see the tumultuous thoughts behind Moira's eyes. She obviously did not agree with her own words, but was bound by duty. As painful as it was (and how degrading) Charles only gave her a bitter smile.

"Also, who would be your librarian?" she asked, changing the subject with as much tact as she could muster under the circumstances; about the equivalent of a bull in a china shop. "You certainly won't have the time once the patient rotation is set. None of my guards can be spared, and we just don't have the budget-"

"Mister Sinister. He expressed interest." This wasn't exactly true, but Charles was sure the mutant would jump at the opportunity to spend time away from the other prisoners.

Her lips thinned. "Without supervision."

"Almost everywhere in this place has cameras, he'd be watched."

"Cameras help in the aftermath. They don't prevent. Sinister has every reason to be out for revenge." There was no way to hide the disapproval on her face. "It would be nothing short of _idiotic_ to leave him to his own devices."

Taking a breath, Charles gave the Captain a beaming smile. "Hank and I will be working on solving that very real issue." His voice was a persuasive purr of conviction. With that tone he might even fool himself. "By the time plans get approved we'll have completed a sedative strong enough for Sinister."

"Fine, Xavier," she said, exasperated. "You really know how to wear a person down. Your enthusiasm is exhausting."

"Isn't that why you hired me?"

She cracked a smile. "Don't make me regret it."

 

...

 

The jacket was barely off his shoulders when Logan took the sleeves and twisted them, trapping his hands in a gentle knot. Lips slid along his ear, igniting chills down his spine. Panic he expected never came and Charles felt almost as much of a thrill from that realization as from the roughened caress of Logan's stubble scraping across the back of his neck. Hungry tongue and teeth worked the prickling skin under his ear and Charles leaned heavily against the broad chest he'd become so familiar with.

Though Logan's masculine scent and caring touch was exciting and arousing enough that Charles was already straining in his pants, it was nothing like the forbidden rush of confusion-laced desire he experienced with Erik. The butterflies caused by Erik had spikes on their wings. Frustrated, he pushed thoughts of the mutant away, still upset about their parting words.

Playfully tugging Charles' jacket off, Logan maneuvered the younger man against the wall. Grinding slowly against him, careful to keep from gripping a slender waist too tightly, he licked slow, scalding lines over Charles' pale throat. He tasted clean and warm; there was a hint of peppermint soap. With a curl of his tongue he drew back, grinning at the other man. The psychiatrist was flushed, pleased, and breathing heavier than when he first walked in. A Cheshire grin split his face. "Hello, doc."

"Hello, Logan," he returned, voice deceptively articulate despite the drumming of his heart. Hands trembling as they pressed the firm square of Logan's chest, Charles drew soft designs over defined pectorals, fingers feather light over dusky nipples.

Logan jumped slightly, a low growl rolling along Charles' throat as he bit and sucked the doctor's heated skin. "Again," he husked, shoving Charles harder against the door. They both were panting at this point, Logan keeping their clothed erections in contact, rubbing in slow circles as he leaned his upper body back, one hand slung loosely around Charles' neck. Waiting expectantly, he arched an eyebrow while the psychiatrist reached tentatively forward, blue eyes fixed determinedly on Logan's chest.

Gaining confidence, Charles moved forward, leaning down to draw his tongue over a perked nipple, hitching up against the cock jabbing into his hip when Logan jerked him closer, that erotic growl rumbling in his ear. "Again," Charles mimicked teasingly, dipping his head to catch the skin between his teeth, rolling it gently with his tongue. Logan arched into his touch, hands unsteadily gripping his hips. In the back of his mind Charles knew Logan was holding back out of concern for him. Intoxicating lust drunkenly flowed through his veins and Charles suddenly caught smooth lips in a biting kiss. They moaned into each other's mouths, tongues twining, teeth nipping at already swollen lips. The kiss turned animal, fingers clawing off clothing or into bare skin. Angry red marks striped Logan's chest like battle scars. Charles eyes followed their path, dazed by the heady rush of pleasure and the distinct lack of fear.

Eyes darting to his cot before returning to Charles' eager expression, Logan hesitated. "Are you good?"

"I'm good," Charles answered too quickly, licking his lips.

"What about.... when we were watching the tape? You weren't okay then," he said, the breathless quality of his voice a comedic juxtaposition to the raging hard-on currently tenting his boxer briefs. "You have to be sure."

He didn't want to talk about this now. If they stopped he'd remember. "I want this," he said with more force, boldly gripping Logan between his legs. "I want you, I want this." His eyes shone with sincerity as he looked at his friend, "I trust you."

Stepping forward to pull Charles into his arms, Logan kissed him slowly, his hand moving down to join the doctor's hand between his legs, guiding their movements. As the smaller man reached in to pull out his cock, Logan caught those blue eyes one more time. He pushed Charles' slacks, already undone, further down his hips. Blue eyes never left his face, and the psychiatrist jerked him faster as Logan began to caress Charles' erection. Closing the space between them, Charles gasped as Logan groaned when their heads touched and slid, scorching hot skin a mess of sensation.

"More," he murmured, pulling Logan into another kiss, tongues flashing between their meshing lips. He hitched a leg up on Logan's hip, thrusting shallowly against him, moaning wantonly into his hot mouth, "Give me more."

"What do you want, Xavier?" he asked, nosing up under Charles jaw to nip at his neck.

 

...

 

It took almost no effort to manipulate the metal pipes within the walls. The prison had undergone so many changes that there were whole piping systems that had fallen out of use--at least to the staff. On the other hand, one metal bender could find an endless array of uses for the labyrinthine mass of pipes scaling Juniper's interior. Now, as he pretended to be doing wall push-ups lest a guard come wandering by, Erik was busy molding the equivalent of a voice pipe. Long ago he'd found the location of the guard dorms through the ever-informative vibrations of metal. Currently navigating the walls, Erik formed a fanned opening at the mouth of the thinnest pipe, resembling the mouth of a gramophone. He pressed it to the wall hundreds of feet away from himself, listening carefully for the distinct cadence that belonged to Charles Xavier.

His spine stiffened when he heard a muffled cry that sent a familiar, microscopic shiver over the metal in the room. Melding the pipe to the wall, Erik listened, ear now pressed flush against the cold stone of his cell, guard be damned. Was Charles hurt?

No, quite the opposite. Erik heard the creaking of metal springs, _felt_ the definite rhythm of bodies - two of them - moving together on the bed. Closing his eyes, reaching out to feel the metal of the cot, Erik could practically see them, Charles and another man. Eyes narrowed to burning slits, Erik clenched his fists. Vicious little songbird indeed. His voice was just as pretty as Erik had imagined, breathy and urgent as the other man touched him. The springs spoke to the metal bender as an unknowing Charles rolled into a kiss, shifting to grab the other man's erection. Blood stung, bitter on his tongue as he bit through his lower lip. His heart was pounding so hard as to break free from his chest and Erik almost pushed energy into the metal holding the bodies upon it, shifting it into a giant hand to crush the man touching the psychiatrist. Then what would he do? Drag Charles to him; explain that no, Charles' touch was his - did he not realize it yet?

 

...

 

Jerking away from Logan, Charles sat up abruptly, hands gripping the disheveled sheets. Crackling dredges of a murky mental presence had danced at the corner of his mind. Brows furrowed, Charles shushed Logan when the man opened his mouth to speak. Listening carefully, Charles stretched out his mind, brushing like a broom into the corners of the room. Looking down, suspicious blue eyes slowly moved over the bed frame. He wouldn't have noticed the presence if he hadn't felt the bed.... _thrumming_.

"Xavier," Logan groaned, scowling when Charles ignored him, blue eyes fixed downwards.

"Did you feel that?"

"If you mean your lovely hand on my cock, then yes I did," he remarked sourly. "Missing it right now to be honest."

"No, the bed," he murmured distractedly, pressing his palms down to watch the mattress give normally under the pressure. "I felt something - it was the bed. And then..." He trailed off, squinting. Someone had touched him. Or he overheard their thoughts? It wasn't rare for telepaths to be summoned into someone's mind, like answering a phone call. If the will was strong enough. He shook his head, running hands through his hair. "Maybe Sinister?" he guessed wonderingly to himself, jumping slightly when Logan's hand came to rest on his thigh.

Squeezing the flesh beneath his hand with comical reverence, Logan asked him, "What about Sinister?"

"He might've just been checking up on me," Charles said, though his tone was unsure.

Making a face, Logan flipped onto his stomach, reaching down to check the pocket watch sticking out of his discarded pants' pocket. "What for?"

"Maybe about the library."

Sighing, Logan jabbed Charles in the side, chuckling when the younger man squirmed. "How about you explain everything so I don't fill my 'what' question quota in one go?"

Returning his easy smile, Charles settled back into the blankets, laying down in the curve of Logan's arm as the man rolled back over. "I'm starting a library for the inmates. My own project."

Bemused, Logan ran his free hand through Charles' thick hair. "Why?"

"Why not?" he shot back, tilting his head up to find brown eyes looking down at him with unabashed skepticism.

"Because it's a waste of time," he answered bluntly. "Unless you're planning to run a porn shop, I doubt any of these lugs would find anything interesting about Jane Austen's collection."

Stung, Charles pushed up onto his elbow, peering down at Logan with a contrite expression. "You never know."

"You should quit catering to these monsters, Xavier," he warned. "They'll take advantage of your kindness. They'll eat you alive."

"That's what you think," he said coldly, wiggling free of the brunette's hands. "You think I'm just some optimistic fool?"

"You can't save them," Logan argued. "There's no salvaging the humanity of a bunch of criminal mutants."

"They're still people for God's sake," Charles spat, cheeks stained red. Voice shaking with outraged surprise at his friend's coldness, he continued passionately, "This isn't purgatory. There's nothing wrong with caring about people who have been condemned and forgotten by a society that would see them dead anyways."

"Don't be so _naive_ , Charles," Logan said flatly. "Your sheltered life has given you a false view of the world. It's time to take off the rose-colored glasses."

"No," Charles snapped, "I am _not_ naive. My sheltered life -" he laughed coldly "- ah yes, I grew up in material luxury. But you know nothing of the emotional poverty that I endured as an unloved child." He didn't even see Logan anymore; he was cast back onto the family estate. The cold, beautiful gilded cage of his youth. "Mine was a home without love, and then I chanced upon the one person who loved me unconditionally - only to be abandoned."

 

...

 

Caught by the heartfelt tone with which Charles spoke, the emotion coming off him raw and bruised, Erik listened raptly. His anger both grew and was surpassed by the understanding he felt, the connection he'd known had been there between them. We are both victims, we have both been hurt. Blinking at the hot sting of tears cresting his eyelids, Erik finally closed his eyes, straining to hear every word through the tinny filter he'd created. _I understand you, Songbird_ , he urged, _Don't waste your time on others who can't possibly understand_.

 

...

 

He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as if he were cold. That same flicker on the edge of his mind was there again. Someone was calling to him; but he shook it off. Glaring at Logan, Charles said darkly, "Then I was delivered into the embrace of hatred at the Academy. You call me naive, Logan, but you have no idea what I have endured; the darkness I, too, have seen." Clenching his teeth, Charles fought the tears brimming his eyes, born from anger and sorrow. "You have no idea what it feels like to be killed over and over, brought back to a husk of your former life. And even _if_ these men are evil, even _if_ they have hearts of stone it is my job here at Juniper to understand them, to try and find humanity in each of them." Breathing deeply, Charles finished, "I won't just sign off on them yet. I won't."

 

...

 

Erik felt the metal door slam as Charles stormed out of the room. The other man slumped on the bed, his heavy weight communicating regret. But Erik had no concern for him. Sliding through the walls, riding pipes, railings, metal doorframes, the metal bender stuck fast to Charles' trail. Until, suddenly, he was cut off as Charles pushed out a secured door to the outside. Like a figure disappearing into deep shadow, Erik lost sight of him.

Drawing his power back, Erik returned to his cot, curling onto the thin mattress. He wanted to so badly to make Charles feel safe. Yet the same beating anger from before returned; was the affair the reason Charles wouldn't acknowledge the tension between them? Miserable, Erik closed his eyes, impatiently waiting for sleep. In the darkest corner of his mind he secretly hoped Charles would come flying to find him on invisible wings, touch his mind like he had that night in the infirmary. Then maybe he could make him understand that we wasn't alone in his pain, that Erik understood all to well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the chapter: Charles don't take no shit!


	6. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Charles and Erik are both lacking in common sense concerning proper behavior with others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't know why I'm taking so long posting chapters... Sorry guys!

**Chapter 6: Jealousy**

 

Cold bit angrily at his exposed arms and legs. He'd been stupid to storm out in nothing but an undershirt and his slacks. They rode low on him without the aid of a belt, the hollow of his hips peeking between the hem of his shirt and pants. Striding out, shoelaces flying around his feet untied, Charles made it all the way to the edge of the cliff. He stared down at the churning waves, lapping at the docks and jutting rocks with a sinister hunger. Splayed out around him like a vast, translucent canvas the velvety night sky played silent witness to Juniper's sleeping countenance rising up behind his solitary form.

Burying his face in his hands Charles took a deep breath, the salty crispness of the sea air mixing with the faintness of Logan's scent still clinging to his fingers. Holding them away, he let the wind thread in between them, continuing up to wrap his entire body in an icy sheet.

The hollow moan of the wind was cored by a shrill, whistling cry. Cocking his head, Charles listened hard. It became louder, more distinct like some surreal instrument. Turning, he scanned the ground, eyes eventually climbing the walls up Juniper to catch a wisp of red at the top of a tower. Silhouetted against the silvery blackness of the sky was a stark head of ginger hair. Then a pale arm shot up and waved down at him. Resting a finger against his temple, Charles sent very clearly, _Sean? Is that you?_

 _Whoa,_ came the reply, _That tickles!_

Up in the crow's nest, a cylindrical room entirely of glass, Charles sat with his back against the wall nursing a cup of steaming hot Irish Cocoa while Sean sipped from his own virgin hot chocolate. Alex, who had joined them after Sean radioed down, was sticking his fingers one by one into his drink before sucking the chocolaty liquid off with a soft slurping noise. Charles watched this for a few minutes before asking politely, "Is this a Juniper tradition I'm not aware of?"

Sean snorted, kicking Alex's foot as the blond blushed. "It's too hot to drink," he mumbled. "And my fingers are freezing, man."

Looking down at his cup meditatively, Charles dipped his own finger in the hot liquid, humming appreciatively at the warmth that spread through the digit before popping it in his mouth. "I see," he agreed jovially, dipping another finger in. They continued this way, Sean even joining them in their habit. This was the scene Darwin walked in on: the three of them with cocoa dripping off their fingers, Sean guiltily sitting with three fingers shoved in his mouth.

"I don't want to know," Darwin assured them quickly, holding up a hand.

After a brief effort to convince him that their way of enjoying a hot beverage was less of a grossly unhygienic practice and more of a practical tactic, Darwin asked Charles about Sinister.

"Will he be returning soon?" He stirred the whiskey into his cocoa with his pinky before giving it an experimental lick. "I ran into Hank earlier and he seems to think that Sinister's milking the situation for all that its worth."

"Yeah, and he's eating all the pudding," Alex reminded him pointedly.

Cutting off a chuckle when he realized that Alex was being quite serious, Charles cleared his throat diplomatically and thought for a moment. "Soon, I believe. But not to stay there if I can help it," he added carefully. Three sets of eyes waited for an explanation and Charles took a deep breath before telling them about the library.

"With Sinister as the librarian," Darwin mused. "You know, I think that'd be great. And he could have help, maybe from the better behaved inmates."

"Like a reward system?" asked Alex.

"We don't have one," Sean cited, looking forlornly on as Charles poured a little more whiskey into his cocoa. He couldn't drink on the job obviously and had been jealously observing them guzzle down Irish whiskey brought by Louise from the mainland. "That never made much sense to me. Human prisons do it."

Alex looked dubious. "Don't you think that'd be dangerous?"

"I'll be addressing that concern tomorrow," Charles said, reading the label of the whiskey. Good brand. "Hank and I are going to start trials for a more effective sedative." He noticed the silence and looked up. They were staring at him like he'd grown not only an extra head but horns and a bunny tail. "You object?"

"Look," Sean started, and then stopped as his face seemed to get stuck in an expression of confusion.

Alex scratched the back of his head. "Hank's a good guy. Really smart. A good doctor, but..." He too petered off and looked at Darwin.

"If Hank wasn't such a caring person he'd be a mad scientist," Darwin affirmed. "So it's kind of disconcerting- "

" _Cough_ crazy _cough_ ", Sean supplied elegantly.

"-that you'd put yourself willingly into his hands."

Pausing to take a liberal gulp of his much stronger hot chocolate, Charles crossed his legs. "It's a risk I need to take. Because of the lack of research and dependable subjects the sedatives for mutants with telepathic abilities has fallen seriously short. Do we really want Mojo to continue active possession of his powers?"

"No, you're right," Darwin consented, "and it'd be good to have something that would enable inmate participation in a project like the library."

"God be with you," Sean mumbled into his drink as Alex nodded morosely.

Grinning, feeling the slightest tease of a buzz on the fringes of his mind, Charles turned to Alex and asked, "How's Delilah the irreverent African Violet?"

Alex perked up immediately, even going so far as to set his mug down. "She's great! She's twice as big now"

"Creeps me out," Sean supplied disdainfully. "She has vines now. Pretty sure flowers shouldn't have vines."

Ignoring his roommate, Alex went on undaunted, "Her color's much richer and Louise even brought me a proper pot for her to sit in."

"And she gets her leaves polished every Wednesday and meets with the girls on Thursdays for a mix and mingle with the local bumble bees," Sean teased in a simpering voice, squawking as Alex placed a well-aimed punch on his shoulder.

"No wonder she doesn't like you," he grumbled darkly.

Darwin was laughing so hard he spilled cocoa down his front, cursing through the laughter as the mottled brown liquid seeped down the white cotton of his shirt. "Damn!" Smudging it helplessly, he gave up. "Well, don't forget the music I brought for her to listen to."

"I think she likes Nina Simone more than Frank Sinatra," Alex said solemnly.

Charles was quite sure the blond (who had brought the mugs and whiskey) had a lower alcohol tolerance than himself. He smiled secretly, reaching over to slip Alex's mug further away from him.

With his mug poised at his lips, Sean opened his mouth to make a smart comment when Darwin nudged the redhead's cup, cackling when Sean spluttered and coughed as he tried to drink the cocoa without spilling.

Easily holding Sean away as the gangly young man attempted to swat at him and spill his drink even more, Darwin looked at Charles with a smirk and asked, "So have you placed your bets yet?"

Alex chortled uncharacteristically, keeling over slightly to lie bonelessly against the wall. Charles abducted the guard's cup and hid it. Considering Alex's rather daunting ability, it wouldn't do to get him properly drunk. Returning his attention to Darwin, he shook his head. "Bets on...?"

"Whether or not the Captain and Wolverine are boinking," Sean announced, accompanying his comment with an explanatory hand movement.

"Ah, thank you for that clarification," Charles said dryly. His gut clenched unpleasantly when Logan's name came up. "And what is the basis for this betting pool?"

"U. S. T," Sean crowed with obvious delight as Darwin flicked him unceremoniously in the side of the head.

Alex leaned over to Charles and stage-whispered, "Unresolved sexual tension."

Charles had to bite his lip, meeting Alex's wobbly blue eyes with mock seriousness since the boy was looking at him so stoically. "Oh."

"You're his roommate," Darwin hinted conspiratorially, "Do you have any idea?"

"I could always just ask him," he said lightly, intending to do just that. Considering the level of involvement he had with the man's penis, Charles figured he had every right to pry.

"That's not as much fun as blindly guessing without any real proof," Sean pouted.

"Then I won't tell you," Charles tutted, grinning as Darwin laughed. It was then he realized that Alex had stolen his cup and downed the rest of his drink.

The rest of night carried on in the manner of a slumber party. During the spontaneous lulls in conversation when the four men were silent, reflective, Charles found himself hoping that it would never end. In all his life he'd only ever had one true friend. Mind shying around her name, he looked at each of his friends, committing them to memory. Sean's face was beet red as he laughed and laughed at a joke Alex fobbed, the blond glaring at him in a way that only accentuating the angular shape of his jaw. Darwin was more meditative, handsome and oddly graceful as he intervened as needed while Alex and Sean swatted at each other like toddlers. A tightening in his chest warned Charles that he best stop with the alcohol before he found himself voicing his sentimental thoughts. It was difficult though to stay silent as he was the happiest he had felt in a long, long time.

 

...

 

Early the next morning, before his appointment with Hank, Charles had decided to pay Mojo a visit down in solitary. After his conversation with Sinister, Charles realized the value of understanding the nuances of another telepath's abilities. And as Mojo's were still a mystery - and still a threat - Charles needed to interact with the inmate directly to glean any information that might assist Hank's research. Of course he'd have to do it subliminally given Mojo's uncooperative nature. A small part of him warned against any contact with Mojo at all, but the stubborn academic pushed him onwards. Sometimes successful research required a risk. If he and Hank wanted to achieve the most effective result in their experiments then meeting with the violent mutant was necessary.

When he saw the remodeled well sitting like a monstrous mouth in the middle of the room Charles felt a distinct shiver chase itself down his spine. The walls and floor of the circular room were stark white, but the well itself had a rim of gray-paint metal before the original stone spiraled down into dark. The guard accompanying him wouldn't come through the door, choosing instead to point out the platform elevator currently lowering from the ceiling. Climbing onto the platform when it was level, Charles observed bemusedly the lack of any railing. Chains connected to four parts of the wide metal circle that was only slightly smaller than the opening of the well.

"Hold on," was the extent of the warning he got as the mechanism roared to life and cranked him down into the abyss.

As he dropped, clinging to the center chain anchoring the others for balance, he sneezed in the shift of space. The air was opening into a colder atmosphere as the shaft of the well widened to a point that Charles couldn't see the walls anymore. All the feeble light shed into the shaft came in ghostly gray swaths from the distancing mouth of the vertical tunnel. Looking up uncertainly, Charles again found himself questioning his presence here. But this time there was no inner voice of assurance to quell his anxiety. Though it was too late to turn back now.

He'd been briefed on Mojo's environment in solitary. Light was removed to obstruct the vision he might use to target a guard. He was placed so far down below to put enough distance to ensure his abilities were as blind as his sight. Charles would be the only interaction Mojo would have since his banishment, as he was also the only one with an ability to properly handle Mojo at his most aggressive. And aggressive he would be. It had come to his attention as the guard elaborated Mojo's situation that the inmate saw Charles as the reason for his harsh exile.

"He yells your name constantly," he mentioned warily, "every day. To be honest, counselor, it freaks us all the hell out."

Those words traveled with him as the chain gave a horrid jerk, nearly throwing him into the black. The elevator had come to a standstill. Holding his breath, Charles waited for his eyes to adjust in the cloying moistness of the air, his vision dyed with bleak grayish murk.

There was movement below him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as a slithering, gravelly voice crackled up through the lightless air like a curse.

"Xavier," he croaked, opening his eyes for the first time in hours. He sensed the psychiatrist like a shark senses blood.

Squinting into the shadows, Charles bit back a cry when twin yellow orbs rolled open, shining eerily. Mojo's lurking shape was a blacker shadow across the floor, roughly six feet below the hanging platform. Shadows seemed to collect around the convict like a gathering storm and Charles had to swallow down a dry throat before he said, "Mojo."

"I've been calling for you, counselor." His voice sounded like an angry hive of bees.  "If only I could reach you up there, sitting pretty like a sweet caged bird. They're so delicate," he said, voice slipping like a snake through the air. The faint echo really did give physicality to his words and he was sure the psychiatrist could feel them slide over his soft pale skin. "Come down, Xavier."

"I don't think I will, Mojo," Charles replied calmly.

"I would like it so very much if you would," Mojo husked, the hoarseness of his voice sounding like each word was clawing up the stone walls. "It's lonely down here, Xavier. Where you put me."

"Mojo, you committed a crime," he corrected sternly, "You put yourself here."

"Dear Sinister is no angel," he scoffed. "I'd always thought the pot and kettle sat on the same stovetop. But here I am put away in the dark, dank cupboard."

"Perhaps if you displayed signs of remorse-" Charles began.

"Don't, Xavier," he growled, a flash of visible anger stinging his tone. After a beat he groaned, "I want to touch you, Xavier. I never got my chance to... touch you."

Raising his eyebrows, kneeling down on the platform to lean over the edge, Charles pointed out wanly, "I'm not here to be touched, Mojo. I am here to help you."

"You can help me," Mojo suddenly roared, claws lunging through the air to grasp at nothing; the creepy click of his elongated nails the only result, "By taking me out of this shit hole!"

Frowning, Charles rested his chin on his palm. "You're in no shape to be among the other inmates, Mojo."

"Ants, cockroaches," he sneered.

Crossing his legs, Charles stared thoughtfully down, his blue eyes drawing wrathful yellow orbs like moths to a flame. "And what are _you_ , Mojo?"

"Every time you say my name, little psychiatrist, I wonder how it would sound instead if you screamed it. I think it would be very exciting." The flash of rage dwindled down to a slow burn. He cocked his head to the side, pupils dilated as if he could suck the pretty doctor's face into them. He could make out Xavier's alluring features after so long in the dark. What once was an urge to tease had turned into rage, and had then changed in the dark; into a dangerous obsession.

"I'm afraid I'll have to withhold such a privilege," Charles said dryly, ineffectively hiding his disgust.

"And who may command that privilege then? I can smell it on you. Someone touches you." Sniffing, Mojo grinned toothily, the faint light reflecting off his teeth. "I know when someone is being fucked. Virgins always fetched a higher price, and I wanted a guarantee of authenticity before I broke them." Pausing in the minute ringing of echoes, Mojo asked, "Who's bent you over, Xavier?" He laughed coldly. "Lehnsherr, perhaps? The man who would shed blood in your honor."

That took him by surprise. "What do you mean by that; who shed blood?"

"Say my name again, counselor. Say it with that pretty, pretty voice. Once more, come on. Quid pro quo, yes?" he teased, letting his arms lower again to his sides, flexing his fists in a series of agitated movements that conjured a disturbing rustling sound. 

Curiosity tugged at his chest. Erik had shed blood for him? Going against his better judgment, Charles craned closer to the wicked voice and said deliberately, "Mojo, tell me."

Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the firm cadence of Xavier's smooth British accent. The little thing thought he was ordering him, running the show? He almost laughed. "Your knight, guilty in his lust, fell prey to a trick of mine."

Now Charles felt and saw flickering pictures before him, like a roll of film cycling too fast. They were coming from Mojo. Through it Mojo's voice continued.

"I sent him some lovely thoughts. You've seen manikins, Xavier?"

"Yes," he said carefully, ears straining not to miss a word. Maybe it was the absence of voices, of company, that made Mojo's tongue so loose. Tell me your secrets, how it ticks, Charles urged silently. Once the quiet stretched Charles scowled slightly, realizing his mistake. Rolling his eyes, he obediently added, "Yes, _Mojo_."

Chortling, the mutant licked his teeth. "Those are the thoughts I send, blank palettes waiting for a painter to come along and give them shape. I sent some to Lehnsherr and he quite lost his temper, naughty boy." He tutted, then turned his eyes up to fix on Xavier's face. "Would you like to see?" he drawled, walking lazily over until he was directly under the elevator, staring up into Xavier's pale face looking down from over the edge.

"I have the distinct feeling that this is a rhetorical question," Charles answered drolly, the ends of his mouth turned downwards. A dark laugh scaled the walls, clamoring all around and Charles stiffened. Regretting his decision to come down into the depths that held Mojo captive, he waited for the mutant's next move.

Cocking his head to the side, his dirty dreadlocks slid over his shoulders to hang like dead limbs. "You might recognize the star of these lovely gifts I delivered into Erik Lehnsherr's mind. What a pity he didn't appreciate them as I continue to," he said suggestively. Then he focused on Charles, reaching out to hook onto his consciousness, acting like a wire cable transferring a signal. With an abrupt push, he projected a flurry of images into Charles mind, cock hardening in his pants when the psychiatrist rolled away from the edge abruptly as if he'd been struck.

  They were terrible. Scenes of torture, rivers of blood, shredded flesh. And his own face in such painful detail; his features sharpened like a wooden spear by the knife of Mojo's obsessive hatred. Struggling to control his breathing as Mojo shrieked with hysterical laughter below him, Charles caught the lines of Mojo's connection and followed them. Flanked by his own manufactured screams, Charles sunk deep into Mojo's mind, tracking, mapping, memorizing. The longer Mojo was directly linked to Charles the better he could understand. He cursed as the images began to shift, turning perversely sexual in nature. Partially blocking the vision of unseen pursuers shoving him, naked, into the ground, Charles doubled his efforts, tracing each tendril of Mojo's overexcited mind. He was sweating profusely, luckily too determined in his task to fall into the panic that was edging in. It helped that Mojo's laughter had fallen silent, the elevator swinging with an eerie creaking from Charles movements. Rolling up to his knees, Charles abruptly cut the connection, satisfied enough to report to Hank. Expecting at least a jeering comment or two from the other mutant, Charles craned over the edge of the elevator. But Mojo was gone.

That was when a freezing cold hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked. Charles yelped as his chin cracked into the metal of the dumbwaiter, splitting his lips. His hand scrambled frantically to catch hold of something as he was dragged over the edge, falling through the air for a second before the floor slammed into him.

Mojo was on him in an instant, claws wrapping around his throat, cutting off his voice as the guard from above called down in alarm. Staring down into the wide blue eyes of the psychiatrist, Mojo licked his lips, fingers tightening. Now bloodshot, those blue eyes were frantic, weak fingers scratching ineffectively to break his grip. Lips pulling back from sharp yellow teeth, Mojo grinned wolfishly down, lifting himself to kick the doctor's legs apart.

In that moment something snapped. Similar to Sinister, Charles lashed out at Mojo with a razor sharp mace of mental power. He followed the path he'd memorized, burning and wreaking havoc in his wake. Saliva sprayed his face as Mojo screamed like a wounded beast, flying back from Charles and clawing the side of his head. Blood spattered the ground as he tore out a dreadlock, Charles scrambling back until he hit the wall. With a final bludgeoning sweep through Mojo's mind, Charles watched as the albino mutant's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped over to lie still on the ground.

 

...

 

It was easy to twist the water pipes until they burst within the walls, leaking out to flood the lower B level cellblock. Erik happily held his wrists together behind his back, grinning at the black guard's suspicious look while he clicked the cuffs on. The bite of metal on his skin was always a strange pleasure to Erik and for a moment he rolled his eyes shut.

He was ushered into the general mess hall along with his block mates, all jostled together in a subdued manner. Mojo's absence had made such a difference. The tension in the air was practically absent, most inmates just looking bored or cracking jokes to each other.

But Erik wasn't concerned with them. He'd caused the evacuation for one reason; he wanted to talk with Sinister. The mutant had been returned to his cell only a few hours ago. Listening with his augmented pipes as his spies, Erik heard the blond guard lecturing the inmate about pudding. Though the pudding was entirely inconsequential, Erik's attention had been arrested by the mention of Charles. The psychiatrist had visited Sinister after leaving the roof.

Sidling through the group of men, avoiding the guards linking their ankles at random to prevent escape, Erik spotted Sinister and stepped up beside him right as the blond guard knelt to fasten their right ankles together. Sinister was looking at him thoughtfully, and Erik would be damned if he didn't see the smugness in the other mutant's expression.

"I gathered you might want to speak with me," Sinister murmured. "I suppose you're the one responsible for this impromptu gathering?"

Grunting in response, Erik glanced around as he spoke out the side of his mouth, "You saw Ch - Xavier."

"I did," Sinister chuckled, expression coy. The other man appeared agitated. "But I'm curious, Lehnsherr; however does that concern you?"

"It concerns me," he growled quietly, eyes snapping up when the black guard walked past.

"Hmm.” This time Sinister's words were tinged with melancholy. "At this point, I'm afraid, I can't treat you to the tidbits of information you seek, Lehnsherr. I have a sneaking suspicion that Xavier has tampered with me." He scraped a fingernail lightly over his temple. "Masterful job really. I hadn't noticed until I looked. Like handwritten pages rinsed by the rain."

"Get moving," the black guard ordered. The inmates grudgingly started marching, a slow moving glob of people lapping the cafeteria. This was a further measure against unrest and possible conflict. They'd learned from last time.

"What is most interesting," Sinister resumed, red eyes glimmering as they scanned Lehnsherr's face while they fell into line with the others in rows of two, "is that I get the overwhelming sense that he did this to protect _you_ , Lehnsherr. I _know_ that, even if I can't quite tell you why."

His heart clenched. "What did you talk about?"

"Me, mainly. Sly fox that he is," he chuckled. "He's so clever, though his heart-" he slid a look up to Lehnsherr's face "-is his weakness." Ignoring the dark glare he received for that, Sinister's sighed, "What a delightfully dangerous creature that Xavier is." Meeting the other mutant's eyes firmly, he added, "Know this, Lehnsherr. I am no enemy to the counselor. But he should tread softly. Keep your apt hearing sharp. I know you have ears everywhere - you may as well be a telepath." Openly laughing at Erik's surprise, Sinister quieted when the guards showed too much interest in their conversation. Three or for of them had gathered at the doors and as Sinister and Erik marched past Sinister was able to catch a few words.

"... like someone had twisted them and then they just burst."

Narrowing his eyes with an amused smile, Sinister chuckled. Erik glanced back at the guards and saw the black man staring at him with uninhibited skepticism.

"Think he knows something," Sinister murmured. "You should also be careful, Lehnsherr, if you want to keep that _interesting_ ability of yours a dirty secret. Twisting pipes isn't very subtle. It doesn't take a rocket scientist."

Frowning, Erik shot another look over his shoulder at the guards. "I'll manage. Don't get any ideas, Sinister."

"Be a gentleman, Lehnsherr," he suggested mockingly, "I have Xavier's ear, you know."

Erik was incensed. "Bullshit," he protested in a flare of jealousy.

"Keep quiet," Alex barked. He was alone; the rest of the guards had returned to rounds or were assisting the groundskeepers with the burst pipes. Darwin had told him to keep his eye on Erik Lehnsherr. The inmate was chained to Sinister, their heads bent together. Shuffling of just under a hundred pairs of shoes filled the wide room with a hushed, shifting noise. Alex glanced at the clock and then ordered, "Pick up the pace!"

Now jogging, Erik was glaring at Sinister, who somehow managed to make jogging in a jumpsuit majestic. "What do you mean, you have his ear?" he grumbled.

"I mean that he and I are partnering on a project - or at least will be. You see, _Erik_ ," he said, voice simpering, "Those of us on good behavior get rewarded. Your psychiatrist is working on getting a library for the inmates, and I am quite positive I'll be the inmate to help run it."

"Why you?" he bit out.

"I practically volunteered myself, and I have a flawless behavioral record save that nasty little Mojo-induced incident."

"That doesn't mean anything," he argued sourly. The guard's sharp eyes observed them menacingly and Erik kept his voice low between panting breaths.

Pursing his lips, Sinister tactfully avoided rolling his eyes. "What I am implying, you ape, is that when I will inevitably need assistance in the library I could possibly - _possibly_ \- throw your name in the hat."

"Why would you do that?"

"Have you given me a reason not to? You’d like to see more of the counselor, and though he may have _edited_ my memory, I am fully aware of the tension between you both. Call me an old biddy, but I do love my neighborhood gossip.” He was grinning now; almost laughing at the other man’s baffled expression. “That and I know you will return the favor when the time comes," he suggested meaningfully. He held Erik's gaze in his red depths and a look of wary understanding alighted on the man's angular features. Looking away the mutant worried his lower lip and Sinister couldn’t help but treat himself to a pleased little smile. He had Lehnsherr right where he wanted him.

“If you,” Erik started slowly, each word articulate and weighted, “can get me into that library, nearer to… to _him_ , then I will be in your debt.”

“Consider it done,” he returned.

At that moment Logan entered the cafeteria. The loose ring of inmates looping the border of the room paid him no mine. Well, except for one. Erik Lehnsherr was looking at him with no less than a murderous stare. Logan snorted, turning to Alex and slapping him on the shoulder. “Summers. They got you on baby-sitting duty?” He kept glancing back at Lehnsherr, who was jogging closer. If possible, his look had grown even darker.

“Just until they fix the pipes, or shut the water off. See how these boys enjoy a couple days without running water,” Alex said, voice rising so that a few inmates offered him the finger in salute.

“Hey, I was wondering if you’ve seen Charles aro-OOF!”

Alex jumped as an inmate head-butted Wolverine, throwing him to the ground. Immediately the rest of the bunch broke into chaos, hooting and pushing at the guard. Growling, Alex concentrated his energy and sent a few bolts at the feet of the prisoners, warning them back. When they had huddled against the opposite wall Alex turned and attempted to wrestle the man off of Logan.

Metal claws about a foot in length jutted from his knuckles and a bruise was already healing under Logan's eye. A deep set of slashes had shredded the front of Lehnsherr’s jumpsuit, the cloth already tingeing red from the flesh he’d cut. Both men glared at each other, Lehnsherr panting like an animal. Logan spit out a glob of blood, teeth bared, “You do not want to start this game, boy.”

Before anyone could do anything, Juggernaut stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around Erik, lifting him entirely off the ground in some kind of protective bear hug, the man’s feet dangling freely. In his calm, deep voice he rumbled, “That won’t do you any good.”

Sinister, manacles dangling from his ankles where Erik had undone them, stormed over. His eyes were practically spitting venom. In a clipped tone he spoke to Erik, “You are an idiot. He’s fine now, Juggernaut. Thank you for interjecting.”

Lowering the smaller man to the ground, Juggernaut kept a warning hand on his shoulder.  
Erik was seething, still shooting daggers at Logan, who in turn was glaring back at him as Alex radioed for backup.

“What the fuck was that for?” Logan demanded, claws still out. The other inmates were murmuring to each other. No one was stupid enough to start a fight with Wolverine. There was a reason he was banished to the office as a pencil-pusher. He’d asserted himself one too many times with riotous inmates, earning him a serious reputation. Lehnsherr, usually on very good behavior, had no reason to attack him. Gazes still locked, Logan barely registered as Darwin and a couple of other guards came running.

“Jesus,” Darwin exclaimed, walking right up to Lehnsherr and tugging aside the cotton of his torn clothing to inspect the wound. “What did you do to him?”

“He started it!” Logan protested.

“Well, shit,” Darwin sighed. “I’ll need a full report to give to Captain M. Lehnsherr,” he barked. “You just earned yourself a night in solitary.”

Sinister was scowling at him while Juggernaut held him still for the guards to secure his wrists and ankles. Erik waved the giant inmate off. “Look, Jug, I’m not going to do anything else, okay?”

“Maybe you should see the counselor,” Juggernaut said, the sincerity of his voice almost touching. “You haven’t got to see him yet. He sure helped me.”

Darwin looked like he was considering Juggernaut’s words. “That might not be such a bad idea. Charles can figure out why you’re such a crazy fuck, huh, Lehnsherr?”

Erik was stupefied. Even as Sinister was rolling his eyes and the blond guard was ushering Juggernaut back to the others, he couldn’t help but feel sudden elation. It didn’t matter the circumstances, he was going to see Charles.

 

…

 

"Eventful night," Darwin remarked amiably as he checked Charles over in the blaring light. Guards were currently bringing Mojo out, strapped like someone off to an insane asylum, complete with a muzzle and a heavy blindfold, which in turn covered coin-sized half-spheres fitted over his eyes. Huge headphones covered his ears and for all intents and purposes, Mojo's senses would have been dead to the world if he had not already been unconscious. Darwin watched Charles watching Mojo. "You all right?"

"Actually, better than I could be," he replied. Seeing the mutant in the full light was unnerving. As with Sinister, there was part of Charles that was disturbed by the results of his abilities when used for violence. "Even though he's not the best person-"

"He's an evil maniac," Darwin cut-in.

"Well, I just... It isn't pleasant to see."

"He would've killed you. Or tried."

Only that wasn't his goal, Charles mused. He suppressed a shudder. Tingling rivulets of fear itched under his brow. He'd been afraid when the mutant was holding him down, but it wasn't paralyzing. His fear had turned into a weapon and enabled him to save himself. A flash of violent, almost animal determination had directed his mutation. Now that the feeling, something akin to rage, had subsided, Charles felt restless.

"Where will you take him?" he asked.

Darwin shrugged. "Captain McTaggart wants him in solitary still, but a surface cell that is easily monitored. I'm sure he'll be moved back down in the well once he's regained consciousness."

Once the guards had emptied out Charles hung back, meandering over to the edge of the well. Looking down was like looking into dead space. Stepping back, he glanced at his watch and realized he was late for his meeting with Hank. Turning and jogging out the door, Charles made his way to Hank's lab.

"I... had no idea this was here," Charles observed, looking around at the unfortunately medieval-esque qualities of the underground lab. As a whole, the effect was much akin to being present in a torture chamber. Charles swallowed uncomfortably and thought for the umpteenth time, What did I get myself into? Sighing heavily, he touched his lip, still swollen and bruised from his scuffle with Mojo. Remembering the wet heat of the mutant's breath on his face and the skeletal grip of his powerful fingers, he shuddered with disgust.

Again, Charles was surprised to find that he hadn't shut down in panic - this time he could defend himself. He cheered silently at his personal progress. After the attack at the Academy he'd felt so weak, pathetic - a child unable to defend himself. By immobilizing Mojo, hurting him, a fire had ignited within Charles. He could stop it. Do even more than protect himself. The strangeness of the aggressive quality to his newfound confidence was alien, but he didn't dislike it. On a selfish note, he hoped the news got to Logan. That would show him who was naive.

Licking at the tinny, still hot cut over his lips, Charles poked at a couple of unfamiliar tools. By the time he'd found Hank the young doctor knew all about the attack and insisted on an inspection of his superficial wounds. It was the newest fodder of the rumor mill. Charles was just a little proud of that.

Hank was busy cleaning up, merely throwing a nod over his shoulder as he selected a set of bottles and other tools to set out on a tray. He motioned Charles to sit somewhere, pulling out a series of notebooks before loading up his arms. When he turned around Charles was sitting primly on the very edge of the holding table, looking small and decidedly nervous. Frowning, Hank went over to him and set down the tray and the notebooks, arms resting on his hips. "Charles?" he asked.

Looking up at the young man, Charles chuckled self-deprecatingly, "Oh, Hank. I'm fine."

"Um," Hank looked confused, "That's good... I was just going to say that I'll need you to remove your shirt and take off your shoes and belt."

Deflating, Charles made a face at Hank's back as the scientist returned to fiddling with the equipment. Darwin's words from last night echoed around his head and the psychiatrist had to shake them away. Mad scientist or no, this study was necessary. "Hank?" he called, leaving his clothes on the chair next to the examination table. "I was thinking we'd just... talk today. Plan, maybe."

"Mmhmm," Hank answered distractedly. , tapping the side of a syringe.  Charles jumped when a gold liquid squirted out of a fat needle. Hank blinked at him. "All right, Xavier?"

"Fine," he squeaked, subconsciously leaning away as Hank approached. Now he carried another tray, on it an array of what would otherwise be a pretty display of colorful concoctions if not for their carriers; sinister syringes of varying size. One even seemed to have a pump on it. Dear lord. Charles felt woozy. "And those would be what exactly?"

"The sedatives specifically geared towards subduing telepathic abilities," Hank informed him proudly, setting them beside a very pale Xavier. "I'll run a customary physical on you and if nothing is out of the ordinary we'll test the first sedative. It would be wisest for you to have a foundation for comparison when we analyze the powers of the inmates. Don't you agree?"

Eyeing the needles with obvious contempt, he grunted.

He'd aced the physical, which was a disappointment in his opinion. Charles felt like a student trying to get out of gym class, but unfortunately his morals were of too solid a stock to allow him a mental persuasion. Besides, Charles reminded himself firmly, You _agreed_ to this.

The first injection (the smallest on the table) made the puncture site itch terribly. It was distracting as Hank sat down, pen and paper in hand to take notes. Charles didn't miss the way Hank was looking at him and he humorlessly wondered whether he should grunt and hoot in the manner of a lab ape. After five minutes of Hank's unnerving staring Charles narrowed his eyes. "I feel something." He reached out with his power and felt Hank's mind. Not bothering to hide his presence, he mirrored Hank's frown.

"No effect then?"

"Not on my powers," he said miserably, hand going to his stomach. "Though I suppose there is relevance in making me feel too sick to do anything, including use my powers."

Approaching him with a concentrated expression, Hank carefully set his fingers on Charles' head, feeling his skull like he was testing the ripeness of a piece fruit at the grocer's. "How does this feel?" he asked quietly, pressing his thumb against the side of Charles' head. Though blue eyes were closed, Hank caught the knit of the other man's brow. "Does it hurt?"

"No, but it is a bit more sensitive than I'm used to," he admitted, opening his eyes to look at Hank. The doctor went to scratch a few things out on his notepad before going back to poke and prod at Charles' skull.

"Unlike the regular sedatives that dull physical sensors of the brain," Hank explained, "the telepathically motivated tranquilizers are trying to hush the subvocalized thoughts used to communicate with another mind." Tilting Xavier's face up to peer into his eyes, Hank gently pressed the middle of his forehead, waiting for a reaction. "Telepaths would theoretically have a higher degree of gyrencephalization than other people, focused mainly in the temporal lobe. That's why your perception and recognition of sub-auditory stimuli even exists, and why your memory can function as a literal filing system."

As the sedative sunk deeper into his system, Charles allowed Hank to lower him back on the table. "I'm sorry Hank; it looks like my understanding of multi-syllable words is stunted presently. Gyren - what?"

"Gyrencephalization," he repeated, taking Charles' pulse, "Is the cortical folding of the brain. The cerebral cortex as a whole is very..." he paused, searching for the word, "Wrinkly."

"Brains are wrinkly, yes," Charles slurred.

Tapping the front of Charles' head, smiling slightly at the sleepy glare the psychiatrist gave him, Hank clarified, "The brain has a very large surface area. Just like an isolated intestine could stretch for upwards of 7 feet."

Frowning as the thought of intestines made his stomach churn, Charles nodded sharply. "Got it."

"It really is fascinating what mutations do the brain. Juggernaut, for instance," he said excitedly, "Has an emphasized parietal lobe."

 _Movement, orientation, recognition, perception of stimuli_ , Charles recited in monotone, feeling nauseous. Hank frowned. Charles frowned back, realizing that he hadn't moved his mouth. Then he burst into laughter, apologizing between hiccups as Hank's face crumbled.

"So instead of curbing your ability to use telepathy," Hank deduced mournfully, "the sedative makes you so tired that all you _can_ do is use telepathy. Fantastic."

Still laughing, Charles turned over onto his side. "Why don't we make some sort of grid while this drug wears off?" he suggested diplomatically. "In speaking to Mojo and Sinister it's come to my attention that the nature of our mutation is far more diverse than I'd initially perceived."

Looking a bit perkier at the mention of a grid, Hank hopped up to retrieve larger sheets of paper, pinning them up on the wall with thumb tacks. Across the top of the paper he wrote _Xavier. Mojo. Sinister_. Looking expectantly back at Charles, he waited with pen poised to fill in the vertical elements of the chart.

"Let me see," Charles said, stretching out along the table. "Telepathist, suggestion, images, force. That'll be a good start." Once Hank finished, the chart divided up into neat boxes, Charles pointed, "You can mark each one under my name. Definitely 'suggestion' and 'images' under Mojo. 'Force' and 'telepathist' under Sinister. To my knowledge that is accurate."

Stepping back from the wall, Hank stood with his arms akimbo. "Ascending degrees of severity, then."

"We must also be mindful of the precision under pressure. What is a feather in consciousness can become a razor when panicked or subconsciously lashing out. The more primal the ability the more dangerous.

"Because it's uninhibited," Hank mused. "It becomes much more base and emotionally-linked."

"Correct," he said, nodding. It seems the dose of drugs had been small. He was becoming more alert by the second. "And while some of us were able to receive training to curb the turbulence of our mutation, I'm assuming the majority of the telepaths in Juniper have not."

"So the current design of the telepath sedatives and the generic sedatives are actually primed to make a telepath more dangerous. Damn," he said vehemently, scowling at the row of syringes. "I've missed the mark on the occipital lobe. So a telepath is almost the polar-opposite to the makeup of a normal tranquilizer, where the frontal and parietal lobes are the objectives."

"Our mind is our muscle," Charles affirmed, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the table. "There have been recorded instances of mutants being shot while under anesthesia. The mind was still quite awake when put under, and their ability reacted with the instinct to survive."

Hank gulped. "It's lucky that you shut down _every_ lobe in Sinister's mind then."

"Yes," Charles said, averting his eyes. He didn't need to tell Hank that Sinister's telepathic abilities were usually dormant beyond purposeful reach. "And Mojo, too."

Picking up a syringe near the end of the line, filled with a hypnotically intense blue substance, Hank hefted it in his palm.

It was the syringe with the pump. Charles fought the urge to slap it out of Hank's hand. "Jumping ahead a bit, aren't we?"

"The others are just varying levels of the first tester," he said. "This one has been tested on the known telepaths and is most commonly used on Mojo. There haven't been any physical side-effects besides a fluctuating thyroid."

"Hot flashes," he deadpanned. "Well, it could be worse."

"I'm giving you a regular dose," Hank warned. "As this shouldn't debilitate your body, I'll need you to keep a detailed account of everything that you feel. Strange as it might sound, I'd like it if you tested every perimeter of your ability. Distance, the pattern of subvocalized wavelengths, et cetera."

Charles was still staring at the needle like it was a snake about to sink its fangs into his flesh. "If you're going to do this Hank I would suggest you do it now. Quite honestly, I am not very fond of needles-OUCH." Hank had stuck him in the meat of his bicep without warning. He hadn't been prepared for the depth of the needle, and when Hank _pumped_ the syringe Charles felt the liquid shoot deeper into him like icy venom.

Pulling the needle out, Hank watched Charles' face earnestly. "Some physician's say that surprise dulls the pain because your body doesn't have time to build up an expectation of it."

            Charles corrected through gritted teeth, "Some physician's are twats."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Research for this chapter was awesome. Brains are fascinating. /nerding out


	7. Mainland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles takes a fieldtrip and discovers something startling about Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. Between general busy-ness and my laptop going into critical condition, circumstances for writing have been dire!

The stubble on his chin shone with a reddish hue and Charles wondered at the strange juxtaposition between Oliver’s black hair and his potential for a ginger beard. Though his mutation was in a league of its own, as all mutants, Charles couldn’t help but be fascinated by even the most mundane of mutations; red hair, blue eyes, albino complexion. A sudden frown graced his lips as he thought of Mojo. Apparently he had recovered from Charles defense with no lingering effects. At least from what the guards could tell. No one got close enough to inspect him, but Hank seemed satisfied that he wasn’t mentally disabled for the time being. And anyway, according to Hank, the data he’d collected from Charles’ first lab would give him a great head start on developing a sedative that not even Mojo could resist.

His fingers still hosted trace trembling from the drugs Hank gave him. When Charles had first sought Oliver out to discuss potential locations and materials for the library, the groundskeeper had commented on his pallor. Against his better judgment Charles waved any concerns off. Today was valuable time off for him and if he wanted to see any progress on his plan for a library he should work to finish the proposal for the Captain and Stryker, who Charles was betting would be adverse to any idea of comfort for the inmates. Therefore, Charles’ presentation would have to be air-tight. Every “t” crossed and every “i” dotted. And for starters, he’d have to confirm whether or not there was even space within Juniper to house the books.

“I have a crazy idea,” Oliver said, every word like he was selling something despite his genuine earnestness. “Come with me.”

Walking along the wall facing the ocean side bereft of any land’s horizon, Oliver led Charles down a worn path edged with yellowing grass. The rush of the ocean was louder on this side, the sun brighter. Today the air was drenched gold with the sudden upturn in temperature and Charles found himself squinting in the light. He had to hold a hand over his eyes to see properly when Oliver stopped outside a large structure jutting out from the side of the prison like a tumor. Maintaining a perfectly blank face, Charles nodded thanks as Oliver wrestled open the metal door, ushering him inside.

It opened up into a long steepled space. Charles realized that he was standing inside of a greenhouse, granted a neglected one. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but give in a little to the undeniable charm. The walls were built out of heavy limestone and the tall glass windows communicated a shifted cast of sunlight, murky yet regal. Unlike the temporary greenhouses of the domestic kind this one had been manufactured to last. Wandering up to one of the windows Charles inspected the moulding, surprised to observe a distinct absence of dust or mold. Even the odor undermined its obvious age and state of disrepair, smelling clean. The floor was sturdy cement, scattered with cut-out troughs of earth where plants must once have rooted themselves. Through the rain-clean slant of the glass roof Charles could see Sean's tower and the swaying branches of jagged trees clinging resolutely to the beachside cliffs. Turning around, Charles saw Oliver fiddling with an electric box. Suddenly a line of cheery lamps stuttered to life, illuminating the dust motes dancing through the air. The lights hung in a neat row of thirteen from the spine of the roof, their design simple and effective.

"During the war we grew our own food. When the government issued food rations a prison for mutants didn't exactly register as top priority." Oliver's face was somber. "Those were awful times. For everyone, everywhere. But especially out here." Scuffing his foot along one of the ground troughs, he cut a wry grin at the counselor. "This place used to be brimming with tomato plants, carrots, potatoes. You name it, Xavier, we grew it here." Laughing, he walked over to one of the numerous windows and pointed outside. "We even had a small farm with chickens and goats right outside here." Sighing, Oliver stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Glad those days are over, though."

After a brief tour of the space, Oliver concluded that it wouldn't be too difficult to set up shelves in all of the spaces once filled by rows of crops. The shelves could be set and cemented in quite easily while maintaining an airtight atmosphere for the books. Several rooms of case files had been put into storage to make room for more cells within the main prison, leaving a whole host of empty shelves locked away in storage collecting dust. Charles was thrilled; if that was the case they'd have room for upwards of two thousand volumes. In addition to the shelves, Oliver seemed confident he could rustle up some paint to cover the cement walls, and perhaps even a rickety old card table as a checkout desk. Oliver's enthusiasm quickly became contagious and the two men parted ways each with a spring in their step.

Riding high on the excitement of this already promising project, Charles practically flew up the stairs to his office, taking two steps at a time. After a flurry of notes and a poorly sketched blueprint of the space, he was right out the door again. Louise was scheduled to make one of her day drops; Charles overheard rumors that the kitchens needed a restock on pudding after Sinister's stint on the infirmary.

Her flyaway curls bounced merrily in the sea breeze. Louise threw down a few cartons of cargo, bantering with the guards as they swarmed the side of the vessel. Then a pair of dreamy blue eyes popped from the rows of faces and Louise laughed, reaching out a hand to haul Charles Xavier up on deck, instantly yanking him into a lung-crushing bear hug. His cheeks were high with color, grin a sight for sore eyes. Even though he looked a little drawn, Louise was overjoyed to see him. He'd wired her earlier with a request for passage to the mainland. Throughout the day she made stops along the coastline, doubling back for a total of seven hours.

"You sure you'll have enough time, son," she asked, voice almost a growl over the rushing winds lifting up from the icy waters. "To do what you need to do?"

"Plenty," he shouted back, helping her pass down boxes to the men. "This is only a test run, after all."

Tossing the last of the Juniper cargo down, Louise waved at the retreating uniforms while she said, "What'll you be doing?"

"I'm going hunting," he teased, laughing as her eyes widened comically. "For books!"

"Thank goodness, the thought of a sweet thing like you drawing blood turns my gut," she crowd, clapping a callused hand on his back. The fact that it nearly bowled him over made her concerned. "Still handsome as ever hon, but are you sure you're up for this ride? The winds are devilish today."

Offering her a dashing grin, Charles shrugged, "I feel fine."

"Well, hunker down then," she ordered, throwing a rough wool blanket at him. "Today this wind is redefining the phrase 'cold as a witch's tit'."

Amidst laughter, Charles wrapped himself tightly in the blanket, settling in a cocoon of warmth against the base of the helm. As his eyelids grew heavy with the lull of the waves, Louise began to sing in a strong, clear voice. The melody spiraled up into the sky, played about by the breezes. Charles fell asleep to the sound.

 

...

 

The town could have easily been pulled straight from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytales. Patchwork houses lined the crooked streets, sprigs of pea-green grasses sprouting from between knobby cobble stones. Seagulls watched him walk from telephone poles and awnings, waiting for any morsels to fall from his pocket, or even be thrown to them if this human was especially generous. Beneath their beady eyes sunning cats lazily kept vigil, hoping perhaps that one of the plump birds would be feeling suicidal enough to stroll into their claws.

Charles was instantly charmed. White, red, blue picket fences lined well-groomed yards filled with hardy dune-grass and natural sandboxes. Driftwood was everywhere, made into signs, benches; abstract art. The sharp smell of sea salt hung over everything, lending a pleasing crispness to the air on which the cries of the seagulls rode lingering currents of wind from the roiling sea.

Making his way down what was possibly the main road, Charles glanced from sign to sign, looking for the library. When one wanted to find either books or information there was no better place to start. It took a bit of a trek, which left him more than little winded, for Charles to find the town’s main library. It was a beautifully rendered cream building with a ruddy red roof. In curving, hand-drawn letters it read: PUBLIC LIBRARY. Grinning, Charles stopped to smell the roses framing the entranceway, their robust fragrance enchanting.

Inside Charles couldn’t help but stop and luxuriate in the atmosphere. Couches obviously donated by the community sprang up in random places, mismatching in a perfectly charming way. Several people were burrowed deep in plush cushions, eyes wide with the wonder of reading. A little girl mouthed the words as she read while seated behind her a few feet an elderly woman used a tiny magnifying glass to scour the page, gently rocking back and forth in an antique chair. The ceiling arched beautifully, and all over the cream-colored ceiling were painted words; the first lines from countless famous books. _They call me Ishmael…_ _riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs…_ Charles grinned. _It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen… I am an invisible man…_ And countless more spanning romance, adventure, horror. He didn’t realize he’d been staring until he heard someone clear their throat. Jumping slightly, Charles flushed as a positively tiny woman stared at him through horn-rimmed glasses with an amused expression and a shiny name badge reading ‘Cecile’.

“We have a book all about the building,” she informed him good-naturedly, her voice like the tremulous warbling of birds in the morning. The handsome young man with an unfamiliar face smiled at her in a disarming way. “If you want to take a look.”

“I’d love to,” he acquiesced, following her to a small section of the room labeled ‘Local’. A handful of independently published books lined the table, the centerpiece being a large hand-bound volume boasting the quaint designation _Our History_. He instantly reached out to help when the librarian picked the book up, but she just tutted at him and turned to settle the book on a small study table. “Thank you,” Charles said, impressed.

“Lifting books for fifty years has done me wonders,” she hinted with a wink before disappearing back among the shelves to straighten and alphabetize.

He watched her shuffle off, small figure melting into the background as if she were part of it. Relaxing into the maroon easy chair, thin but still quite comfortable, Charles opened the volume, eyebrows shooting up when he realized the text lining the pages was handwritten in the same style as the library’s sign and the ceiling scrawl. Flipping back to the first page he again saw the words _Our History_ , and there beneath the curling letters was a single name; Namor. Filing the name away, Charles began to skim the pages, intending only to admire the beautifully rendered handwriting. But soon his thumb had migrated to his lower lip, a telltale sign that all else in the universe had melted away and it was just him and the book.

Four sets of eyes peering between the lowest shelves of books watched the stranger reading. They sat quietly, all in a row like a ducklings.

“He’s different,” whispered a girl, the end of her red hair clinging wetly to her cheek where she’d been chewing on it. Next to her a cocoa-skimmed child with shock white hair regarded her with disbelief.

“How do you know?”

“Jean always knows,” affirmed the boy nestled on the redhead’s other side. “She knew about my brother, she knew about me.” He reached over and poked the white-haired girl, twisting to avoid her swipe at his head. “She knew about you!”

“But how can you tell,” the girl hissed, crouching down low so that she could catch Jean’s eyes.

“I _know_ ,” she breathed, pressing her palm to the side of her head. Ororo, shoving white bangs out of her eyes, still looked skeptical but Jean didn’t care. This man was like her. She’d felt him enter the library but had hidden quickly instinctively. No one knew that she was different, and she wasn’t going to tell. Parents would tell naughty children that they’d become mutant and be sent to Juniper. Jean never wanted to go there. She’d seen the people they took there.

“Do you think he’s from the jail?” asked Scott, sounding excited.

“Why would he be from the jail?” Ororo teased, “He’s short. They’d eat him up.”

Jean smiled secretly to herself. That man was like her. She knew it. Glancing at her two friends, she said, “Get Bobby. We’ll follow him.”

A soft voice whispered on the fringes of his mind; low and loving. “Charles,” it whispered to him.

“Raven…”

His eyes snapped open. The book lay open in front of him. Library patrons scuttled past, the lone librarian busy at the checkout desk. Shaking himself, Charles gingerly closed the book and returned it to its resting place. Next he stretched, slightly unnerved by the fatigue holding him in its grip. Luckily several other people had drifted off while reading, otherwise Charles would have felt embarrassed. As it was, no one seemed to notice him.

Perusing the shelves, he regularly glanced at the desk; waiting until only a few stragglers remained by the front. As much as he would love to while away his time in this utterly pleasant library, Charles was concerned about the task at hand. Today was a day for book hunting.

The librarian, Cecile, waved him over from his post, hovering at the edge of the checkout line. He glanced around before winging over, his gate sure and foreign, lacking the sloping gate of sea-faring men. She smiled at him pleasantly. “Did you enjoy the book?”

“I did,” he confirmed genuinely, “What a task.”

“Yes, Namor was quite the man,” she agreed distantly.

Charles caught the wistful sorrow of her tone and frowned. “Who is he?”

“A great man,” Cecile answered. “He helped make this small bay into a town, into a home. He fought in the Great War and returned a hero. But…” Her ghostly grey eyes went dark. “He was… different. And those times, being different was dangerous.” Gaze flickering over the young man’s face, she saw the shade of understanding in his expression. “He was a good man,” she repeated quietly.

“Well, his legacy certainly lives on,” Charles said, again looking up at the swirling letters on the ceiling.

“Here and there,” she murmured knowingly, smile back to light up her eyes. Closing the registrar, the librarian stood up straighter. “What did you need, young man?”

“Books,” he said with a grin, “But I’m more in the market to keep rather than borrow.” At her puzzlement he added quickly, “I’m part of a project to construct a library, you see. At Juniper.” Holding out his staff badge, he winced slightly, waiting for her look of disapproval. He’d been warned about the animosity the natives had towards Juniper and her inhabitants. Instead he received a beaming smile, and all of a sudden a small but strong hand had wrapped around his forearm, tugging him after her. Cecile guided him into the back of the library, which was a simple room with windows lining the upper part of the wall in a cheery border illuminating the swatches of dust motes trickling continuously through the air on random currents. The floor was littered with neat piles of books, tables held more piles, chairs held even more. Charles couldn’t help but laugh, grinning widely as the librarian’s song-like chuckles joined him.

“Here is where some of our collection comes to rest awhile. Some longer than others,” she added with a shrug. “We give what we can to the schools, but most of these books have retired and been replaced with newer copies.” Picking up a worn copy of _Walden_ she sighed with an unpretentious huff of frustration, “I can’t let them go to be turned into mulch or pulp.” Running her fingers along the pages, she looked squarely at the young man. “Would you be averse to taking strays like these into your collection… Charles, was it?”

Walking forward and taking the book gently from her hands, Charles smiled warmly. “They’ve been loved. You can tell just by looking at them. It’ll do the men on that island good to have something loved in their lives.”

"You can take them today if you like," she suggested, the light in her eyes practically sparkling with happiness. “I have dollies and boxes enough."

"That would be lovely," he blurted, flabbergasted at hitting the mother load so easily. "It really, really would."

"Well, I should head back up front, but the boxes are folded up in that closet, and the dollies are over there." She motioned with thin, graceful hands. Pausing on her way out, Cecile looked at him lingeringly. “It’s quite a thing; what you’re doing for those men. Very admirable, Charles.”

“Thank you, Cecile,” he returned, meaning it. She nodded and then left him to the task at hand. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the room. Being a notorious bibliophile himself, Charles had spent much of his young adulthood packing and unpacking books. Until his mother’s death and his step-father’s following action to cut him entirely out of the will, Charles lived quite comfortably with an extensive collection of books bought, found, or given over the years.

After been thrown out of the family like dirty bathwater Charles had to endure the world without his literary family. It had been unbearable at first, and he’d even entertained the thought of breaking into his old mansion and stealing the most precious of his books. But Kurt, his stepfather, had sold the entirety of the family library almost immediately, along with much of the estate.

Shaking off the unpleasantness those memories summoned up Charles focused on pulling out the neat stack of folded boxes, taking a moment to puzzle out the pieces. Luckily there would be no tape required; it was just a matter of locking the cardboard into place. One down and it looked like forty-nine more to go.

By the time Charles had set up each of the fifty boxes stacked in the closet his jacket and sweater were long gone, draped over a random office chair. He’d unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves up high over his elbows. The slender musculature of his arm shifted subtly as the varying weight of different volumes rested in his hands one by one. It was difficult to resist the allure of the books. Each was calling out to be opened, read, just a page. And with the impeccable collection represented here Charles was hard-pressed not to peek at famous first lines or reread the fairytale endings he had chased during childhood. He finally faltered, halfway through finishing the tenth box. Eyes softening in nostalgic reflection, Charles ran his fingers lovingly over the spine of _The Lone Cowboy_. This book he had escaped into countless times as a child alone in the cold mansion on the Xavier estate. On nights - many nights – when his mother had retired to bed and left him alone with his abusive step-father, Charles would hole himself up in one of his secret hiding places; where Kurt and his belt wouldn’t find him.

He’d ride the winds with the main character, Jack, cower beneath the rolling thunder of the plains; howl with the Apache tribesmen as they hunted the mighty bison. Hours of his life had been spent between these pages. The pounding of horse hooves, haunting echoes of wild coyotes; these were the imagined sounds that helped drown out the anger and hatred flying from his step-father’s mouth.

“Good to see you again, old friend,” he murmured fondly. “Your work certainly is not finished.” Gently he placed the book in the box atop the others. The distinct smell of books pervaded his nose and Charles just inhaled for a moment, loving to be surrounded by books once again.

Later Cecile stopped in with fresh iced tea, overjoyed with his progress. On her way out she pretended not to notice the four tiny children smooshed together behind a book cart trying their best to be invisible. She smiled to herself; there was a reason she left 5 cups on the tray with the tea.

He closed the last box, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the insistent aching of his head. It was just the dust making his head hurt. Noticing the tea he exhaled with relief. That would do the trick; he was probably just dehydrated. On his way over his eyes caught up on a headline across an aged looking newspaper topping a giant stack of periodicals: “MUTANT KILLS or BE KILLED”. Brows knitted, he wandered closer then froze. Erik Lehnsherr’s picture was plastered across the front page. Though the face was smudged in the black and white rendering and in the picture he was covered in what Charles guessed unsettlingly to be blood, there was no one else it could possibly be. Hands with an unmistakable tremor, whether from the odd feeling roiling through his stomach or the physical fatigue creeping over his nerves he wasn’t sure. When he tried to lift the paper away the pile stirred and slid to the side in a stinking cloud of musty dust that hit Charles square in the face. Coughing, he rocked back still clutching the article. Fighting over to the table with the tea he hurriedly filled a glass and drank deeply. Skin clammy, Charles sat heavily on the floor. His immediate concern was not for his health, but for this article. Something stronger than self-preservation told him he must read this now.

Taking a few quieting breaths, he stretched the paper before him and began to read, sipping his tea.

The first tear rolled down his cheek and Charles didn’t even bother to wipe his face, far too engrossed in the almost scientific detachment with which the reporter had recorded the details of Erik’s childhood. Concentration camps in Poland, where he lost both parents. Scars were all over his body, most far older than the ones sustained during the sinister conference where he had been held captive until his final act of self-defense, resulting in the deaths of a hundred anti-mutant extremists. The reporter theorized the scars on his body were from experiments performed upon his person in the camps, a common enough occurrence in the history books but Charles still felt the bile rise in his throat. Erik.

He read on, horrified and angered by the account of the extremists’ treatment of Erik as a mutant – both because of the inhumanity of their actions and that the reporter wrote with no regard for Erik’s dignity. Within their custody, Erik had been beaten daily and kept in a hole used as a compost heap for food waste. What made Charles blood boil, hands shaking with rage, was the description of the sick rituals Erik had suffered. Defecation, urination, dead animals; every type of filth was thrown down onto Erik as he languished in the hole until he’d been taken to the conference in order to be a sacrifice.

Part of Charles wondered why Erik hadn’t used his powers to fight back. Considering the level of destruction he caused in the end at the conference. Though Charles didn’t, in fact, know Erik’s ability. Shrugging off the thought, he read on, eyebrows gradually migrating higher up his forehead as he skimmed accounts of pro-mutant rallies and even answering ambushes on countless violent gatherings where mutants were being tortured. The group that had imprisoned Erik died out – there was no other term to use. One by one seeds of that organization disappeared or were found by pro-mutant leagues. As if Erik’s self-induced liberation had triggered a chain reaction. It also said in the article that Erik had gone into a spontaneous coma for almost two days after he was apprehended before waking with abstract notions of what had happened.

Brow furrowed, Charles reread the depiction of Erik’s sleep. According to the text, Erik had been completely calm when the authorities came for him, cooperating fully with his arrest. Then, after learning he was to be transported to Juniper, he blinked out like a light. When questioned after he awoke, the reporter writes that his memory had been picked as clean as a fish bone by alley cats. Polygraph tests showed he was telling the truth when questioned; which was the same case when compared to polygraphs used before he underwent the coma. The coma itself had no medical reasoning behind it, as if he went into a deep, harmless sleep.

Charles frowned. Picked clean. A deep, harmless sleep.

If anything, it sounded like the work of a telepath.

Rubbing his temples, Charles relaxed back against the legs of the chair he was seated next to. His head was pounding, the amount of dust creeping from between the old newspapers scratching at his throat. Reaching for the tall glass of iced tea, Charles felt the world tilt in a nauseating swoop of vertigo. Slamming his hand down to support himself, he was aware of a horrible wet creeping of sweat spreading under his shirt. The iced tea wavered, and a fluttering sound was preamble to Erik's picture warping in front of his face. Deadened exhaustion tempered by the halftone stippling twisted into something feral. Charles coughed, the dust clinging to his airways and the nausea powerful enough to make him gag.

By the time Jean had run to his side the man was slumped over, his breathing erratic. Scott, Ororo and Bobby hovered around her twittering like birds. Bobby poked the man in the side and Ororo hissed at him, swatting his hand away. Ignoring them, Jean touched the man's head and winced when the turmoil roiled against her touch. She heaved through it and centered on the fluttering pulse point of his consciousness, prodding it gently. The gasp that issued from his mouth sent Scott, Ororo, and Bobby stumbling back. But Jean kept still, waiting for his eyes to fly open, a startling blue which focused on her like lasers. Under the intense stare, gathering like papery moths to a flame, she felt it as he came to his wits. He reached out to her and their thoughts mingled like intertwining fingers.

 _I knew you were different_.

Her voice was a whispering echo faintly careening through the vastness of a cathedral, gently rolling along his mind as gentle as a breeze. Charles experienced calm melting over him, cool and relaxing. His headache subsided, disappearing into nothing. A brilliant smile spread across his face and he reached out to take this young girl’s hand. Three other children were watching them curiously and Charles guessed that they too were mutants, each staring between him and the girl with curiosity but not fear.

 _Thank you for waking me_. She smiled at him as the words slid through their connection, Charles letting them fly with waves of gratitude and tranquility.

Squeezing his hand, she replied out loud for the sake of her friends, “You’re welcome, Charles Xavier.” At his surprise she beamed with pride.

At the children’s behest Charles agreed to go outside with them and take a break from all the dust. The boxes were packed and all that was left was to transport them into the boat headed back to Juniper at the end of the day. Cecile had some students from the high school coming in for service hours who could help so Charles figured his work at the library was done for the time being. Though Erik’s haunting picture still lingered, he resolutely pushed it to the back of his mind, if not for his own sake then for Jean, whose ability was extremely powerful yet lacked subtlety or refinement enough that Charles’ thoughts would remain private.

“So why they gotta read for?” Bobby trumpeted, skipping ahead of their group to kick at stones. They were walking along one of the smaller streets, Ororo and Scott skeptical of their new friend. Jean’s tiny hand was enclosed in Mister Xavier’s, so Bobby figured he was a safe person.

“Cuz they don’t have anything to do,” Scott reasoned diplomatically, shooting a glance at Mister Xavier, the man’s face a darker shade of pale through his sunglasses.

Bobby scratched his head, waiting until Jean and Mister Xavier were close enough that he could grab the man’s other hand, swinging on it while he announced, “Reading is boring.”

Ororo, who’d drifted closer, kicked him in the ankle, dancing away as tiny shards of ice crackled along the street towards her. “You’re too dumb to read!”

Marveling at the flippant way the children used their powers, Charles looked around, wary for their sakes. No one was around, but he was still worried about prying eyes peering through windows. “Be careful now,” he warned, squeezing Bobby’s hand.

Unconcerned, Bobby began hopping along on one foot, his hand jerking on Mister Xavier’s with every step. Scott walked backwards in front of them, hands in his pocket while Ororo made faces at Bobby when the boy said, “My mom gets bored a lot, so she reads the pink books.”

Scott cocked his head to the side. “Pink books?”

Charles heard a tittering of mental laughter roll off of Jean and he couldn’t help but grin to himself as the dark-skinned little girl, her hair shockingly white, teased Bobby mercilessly while chanting, “Naughty books! Dirty books!”

“Mom says they’re about love,” Bobby demanded, stomping his foot and pulling them all to a stop.

“Oh,” Scott said wisely. “My mom likes those books too.”

“I’ve seen them in garbage cans,” Ororo added. Then she brightened and turned to Charles. “The rich ladies read them and then throw them away so their husbands don’t find them. Wanna see?”

Laughing, Charles thought for a second. “I suppose.” Winking at Bobby, he added, “Everyone should have stories about love, right?”

Letting go of his hands, both Jean and Bobby went tearing down the street, laughing and stumbling. Ororo went hooting after them and Charles found himself breaking into a jog just to keep up. Scott, being the oldest and most polite of the group, hung back with Charles. The counselor wondered at the secret hidden behind the dark glasses covering his eyes.

“Do you know…” he hesitated, kicking at rock. “Do you know Alex?”

Eyebrows raised, Charles answered, “Yes. He’s a friend of mine.”

Giving Charles a closer look, Scott half-smiled, “He’s my brother.”

“Of course,” he said, “He mentioned a brother on the mainland.” A lie, but from the way Scott perked up and grinned he didn’t regret it.

“Well, tell him I say hi, okay? And… And could you give him this?” Pulling out a medal dangling from a worn-looking red ribbon, Scott handed it over.

Taking it gingerly into his hands, Charles read the words _First Place Javelin_. Smiling warmly, he patted the boy on the shoulder. “He’ll be happy to have this, Scott.” He sensed pride, nervousness, and how much he missed his brother. Expression melting, Charles assured the boy, “Alex will be very proud of you.”

To his surprise Charles found himself in the middle of a very posh neighborhood. The kids were rolling around the street, peeking in various garbage bins set out for the waste collector to pick up. They obviously weren’t joking about women throwing the romance novels away. As soon as Charles deigned to join them he was laughing at himself as he reached into strangers’ garbage. He’d found a treasure trove of trashy pulp novels. Arching an eyebrow at the suggestive covers, he grudgingly admitted that the inmates would most likely appreciate these far more than the American Classics.

Wriggling around like a worm sticking out of an apple, Bobby was tossing out books, half his body submerged beyond the lip of a garbage bin. Ororo, Scott and Jean had walked over to watch, fascinated as the pile grew.

“That’s Mrs. Fowler,” Ororo confided as Charles approached. “She’s president of the Church Committee. Her husband’s the pastor.”

Typical, Charles thought wryly. And look at all the bodice-rippers littering the road. Clearing his throat, Charles knelt to start collecting the books. “We probably should move on now before someone calls the police.”

Arms full of romance novels, Charles and the children made it back to the library as the sun was beginning to set, setting the sky aflame with salmon pinks and cerulean blues. It didn’t take long to pack the books away with the others. The iced tea from Cecile was still there and the children drank thirstily while Charles carefully tucked away Erik’s article for later. He didn’t miss the way Jean was watching him, her intelligent dark eyes reading him effortlessly.

“Charles?” Cecile poked her head in, cheeks looking slightly flushed. “There’s - ah - someone here to see you. From Juniper.”

Shrugging, Charles walked out into the main library, the children trailing after him like ducklings. Then they all neatly bumped into each other as he abruptly stopped, staring at Logan standing awkwardly amidst the sleepy library patrons. His size dwarfed the room, rugged appearance at odds with the cozy atmosphere, though he looked sheepish as he met Charles’ eyes.

“Hey, doc,” he murmured.

For the kids it was love at first sight. Outside while Charles stood by as an amused observer they peppered Logan with questions, Bobby going so far as to grab his bicep and declared loudly, “He’s like Popeye the Sailor!”

Ororo, charming face set in an immovable expression of skepticism, looked him slowly up and down. “Did you escape from the jail?”

Charles couldn’t help it; he nearly choked on laughter as Logan scowled down at the little girl. She stood her ground, quite serious. It was when Logan knelt down so that he was eye to eye with her that Charles got a little worried.

“Would an escapee take you brats out to ice cream?” he asked.

“Ice cream!?” Bobby practically screeched as he leapt onto Logan’s back like some crazed rodent.

Ororo narrowed her eyes. “I guess not.” But she was smiling. Charles relaxed, shooting Logan an cheeky smile.

The ice cream parlor was empty save for an elderly couple sharing a milkshake. A storm of pattering feet, the kids ran up to the display to press their rosy faces against the cold glass. They argued animatedly about which flavor was the best and reasoned that if Logan was an escapee he wouldn’t be this rich (even if he robbed someone, Scott pointed out logically).

 “Way to secure the loyalty of your fan club with a display of such wealth,” Charles commented, leaning against the opposite wall next to the other man. Logan snorted.

“Pretty sure I can handle a few ice cream cones.”

Crossing his arms and looking down reflectively, Charles inspected the toe of his shoe, voice subdued as he said, “Figured you were busy today.”

Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “In addition to gaining loyal minion children,” he began, “I was hoping I could bribe forgiveness out of you with ice cream.”

“Oh,” he sighed noncommittally.

“I was a real prick to you, Xavier,” he said, waving at the register as the children’s volume rose to new heights when their cones were handed to them. “It’s real quality, what you’re doing.”

Chuckling, Charles rolled his shoulder so that he was facing Logan. Brown eyes were looking at him pleadingly and he shook his head. “I don’t know if quality is the right word, precisely. Do you know what I was just doing with the help of the children?”

“Uh oh,” he said, lips quirking with relief as the doc looked at him with obvious fondness. “Do I wanna know?”

“Dumpster-diving. For romance novels.” Ducking away from the other man, Charles let that information sink in while he skimmed the selection of flavors, pointing at chocolate chip mint. The plump young man behind the counter reached in to collect a generous scoop. He felt the heat of Logan’s body almost against his back.

“Is it strange that I find that sexy?” was the murmured rumble brushing the back of his neck.

Charles shivered, stepping away as Logan ordered two scoops of Rocky Road. Leaving before the man paid the bill, Charles breathed deeply outside to collect his wits about him. There was still something he needed to ask Logan, though not until the children were out of earshot.

Silent but for the sound of numerous tongues lapping at melting ice cream, their motley group made their way back to the library where they found Cecile chatting with Louise. A few of the high school students were already carting the boxes of books down to the pier, looking enviously at their ice cream. Logan finished the rest of his cone in one bite before scooping up several boxes of books at once. Cecile looked far too appreciative as he walked past and the kids cheered, Bobby looking star struck.

“Strong fellow,” the librarian mentioned casually. “Quite fit.”

The kids and Cecile stood in a row along the dock, waving. Bobby was hopping up and down as Scott dutifully kept a grip on the back of his shirt in case he pitched forward. Through the chug of the engine, the cry of the seagulls, the clap of the waves, and the growing distance between them, Charles still heard Jean’s voice like crystal in his mind; _I hope we’ll see you again, Charles Xavier_.

Buzz about the library was all over the prison. Charles winced at the lecture he’d probably be receiving from Moira about that and, granted, he may have jumped the gun with so many books. Despite it, the enthusiasm was palpable. They moved the boxes up to Charles joint office, much to Hank’s chagrin. But once he’d informed Hank of his rather startling experience passing out in the library the young doctor grudgingly shut his mouth. It wouldn’t do to deny his valuable test subject this minor favor, or so Charles hedged.

Logan was straightening the last row of boxes when Charles finally asked, “Logan. Are you sleeping with the Captain?”

Pausing, he sighed heavily. Then, with a completely flat tone he corrected, “We don’t do much sleeping.”

“To be honest,” Charles started flippantly, “I don’t know whether to be insulted, angry or relieved.”

“ _Relieved,_ ” he pouted. “That’s a bit harsh. I wasn’t dogging you-“

“Listen, I know we never defined this or agreed to any kind of exclusivity,” Charles interrupted. “And Logan, I enjoyed myself. While it lasted.”

“I see.” Leaning over, he pecked Charles on the corner of his mouth. “You know I’m always here for you, doc. There ain’t no shame in manly cuddling every now and then.“ Regally he ignored Charles’ giggling. Tone shifting, he gripped the counselor’s shoulder. “Listen, Charles. Be… careful. Okay?”

Barely a glimpse with his ability revealed the message shining in Logan’s eyes.

Erik.

            Be careful of Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have lots and lots of Erik. Promise! Also, I don’t suspect the kids will reappear again. They had more of a cameo in the plotline.


	8. Senator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles gets lectured, Erik acts like a puppy, and Sinister uses his people skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles is a brat. But at least he’s a productive one.

**Chapter 8: Senator**

 

            “Ow,” he remarked flatly, arching an eyebrow as Hank shot him an apologetic look. “Feeling a bit like a pincushion.”

            “I’m not leaving them _in_ you,” he pointed out contritely. “After all, if I don’t administer the antidote you’ll be effected all day by the narcotic dose.”

            Grumbling mutinously under his breath, Charles held still as Hank stuck on a cheery little Band-Aid with bluebirds and sunflowers all over it. “Cute,” he observed, unable to resist a wry sort as Hank grinned.

            All that morning, since what Charles was sure could be considered the “wee” hours, he and Hank had been pouring over lab tests. After drawing a substantial amount of blood – or as Hank described it, “just a bit” – Charles had the opportunity to scrutinize at his own cells beneath the microscope. Fascinated, he listened as Hank narrated the different chemical reactions he’d noticed. Though Charles only had a hazy idea of what the shifting microorganisms meant, Hank’s enthusiasm was just as infectious as ever and before he knew it they spent a good number of hours together positively geeking out over the shifting cellular plain squashed onto a slide beneath the microscope.

            He supposed he couldn’t blame Hank for the current haste used as he stuck Charles like a pig with the various needles arrayed on a now familiar metal tray. Charles had completely forgotten that he’d promised Captain Moira a full report on the library plans. Oliver had drawn up the blueprints for the greenhouse, and of course the books were currently crowding Charles’ office. Moira had made her opinion of this activity very clear and so today was the unexpected deadline for Charles proposal. He only hoped that the state of progress of the project would convince the higher ups to set aside their bias and spring for the library.

            After finally escaping Hank’s clutches, Charles hurried back up to the office to lugg out the giant typewriter stowed under his desk. Without its absurd girth taking up space he’d managed to clutter it horribly with notes, lists of books, tea bags, and various plants brought by Louise or gifted from other officers.

            Soon the busy sound of typing filled the office, a rhythmic _ding_ marking the end of a line before clicking mechanically back to start the next. Charles pounded away furiously at the keys, determined to have it on the Captain’s desk by afternoon. Lucky for him the tough parts – the parts that concerned finances – had miraculously worked themselves out in such a pleasant way. Beaming at no one in particular as he pushed out another page, Charles attributed it to the serious lack of optimism in the area. There was so much potential, but the crippling slump incurred by bias bureaucracy dropped a heavy veil over everyone’s eyes. But now Charles was here and if he was ever called anything, it was optimistic. Foolishly so, some would say, but Charles didn’t think about that.

 

…

 

            Jogging down the hall, Charles nearly ran headlong into Logan coming out of the main office. The bigger man caught him effortlessly, setting him on his feet with an affectionate grin. Charles blushed, dusting himself off and returning Logan’s smile. Though their... breakup-like conversation had been relatively free of awkwardness, they had yet to return to the easy-going nature of their former relationship. Charles felt a little childish about the whole thing, but he didn’t have time to consider it further as Captain Moira appeared in the doorway with none other than Stryker himself, and some vaguely familiar politician from the nearby big city.

            Charles spoke before he thought, “Captain Moira, I have the appeal for the Juniper library.” Blatantly cutting his eyes to the politician, whose expression piqued with interest, he added, “It’s going incredibly smoothly with a zero cost projection.”

            Moira had gone pale and her lips pursed in a very thin, very straight line. Stryker was glaring at Charles as if he were a bug.

            “This, ah, hasn’t been confirmed or approved as of yet,” Stryker announced, voice hosting an underlying warning that Charles picked up crystal clear. He beamed at the older man.

            “I’m not worried,” Charles assured, “At this point there is absolutely no logical reason not to move forward.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the politician stroke his chin thoughtfully and stifled an audible thrill. “It will be a great gesture to the community that we... as an institution... care.”

            That sold it. The politician cleared his throat. He was a tall, thin man with wire-rim glasses as a long nose. His small mouth was expressive and his lips quirked as he held out his hand for the report, which Charles graciously handed over. Sharp blue eyes skimmed the report and perused the blueprints. Careful not to look at either Stryker or Moira, Charles was delighted as a telltale gleam shone in the politician’s intelligent eyes.

            Speaking directly to Charles, McCone hinted, “This is a fantastic project.”

            “Yes it is,” he replied confidently, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and donning a charismatic smile. “It truly is a win-win scenario, Senator. Good for morale, encourages better behavior here at Juniper, and creates a sense of ease and comfort in the community to know that inmates have a creative outlet.” The politician was smiling now, eyes moving over Charles in a calculating angle.

            The Captain was silently fuming and Stryker was just a silent heavy presence to Charles’ left, which he staunchly ignored. He and the politician were still smiling easily at each other, McCone still holding the report in his hands.

            “I’d like to discuss this further, if you would be available Mr...?”

            “Xavier, Charles Xavier. But please, Senator,” Charles informed him demurely, laying it on thick, “Call me Charles.”

            “Well, Charles,” McCone acknowledged, smiling knowingly, “I’ll be seeing you again soon. I’ll review these documents and if I find no objectionable materials then I would like to get a photo of the groundwork in the paper as early as next week.” Turning to Stryker almost as an afterthought, he added in a flippant tone, “If that would be acceptable, Commissioner.”

            They all were aware that this was not a request. Stryker’s submissive nod said as much and Charles didn’t spare an ounce of pity for his underhanded ambush.

 

…

 

            Darwin rolled his eyes as he opened the cell to find Lehnsherr waiting by the door like a puppy. The inmate had been on his best behavior since jumping Logan, acting nearly angelic compared to his regular moody swing between silent an brooding or obnoxiously playful (which usually resulted in an annoyingly long negotiation to get him down from the roof). At least he hadn’t scaled any walls in a while. Since Charles arrived, Darwin noted wryly. Not that Lehnsherr had ever been a problem inmate. If anything, he was a reasonably calm and personable fellow, though Darwin often got the sense that Lehnsherr considered Juniper only a temporary home despite the life sentence he’d racked up in light of his defensive massacre. For that reason guards kept a closer eye on him. That, and his Houdini-like ability to get out of the main prison yard and onto the roof in the first place.

            “How are we doin’ today, man?” Darwin asked, arching a quizzical brow when Lehnsherr obediently turned around and crossed his hands behind his back. “Someone’s eager.” Lehnsherr actually snorted and Darwin almost missed the cuff lock, shooting a suspicious look at the back of Erik’s head. “You’re not planning anything special today, are you?”

            Craning his head around, Erik chuckled, “No, actually.”

            Shaking his head, amused, Darwin slid the door back open and marched Lehnsherr out. “Well, Cinderella, you’re all ready for the ball.” _I just hope Prince Charming is expecting you_ , he thought.

            Erik kept trying to urge the guard to walk faster as subtly as possible, his heart quickening in his chest. As they turned the corner Darwin pulled to an abrupt stop, holding Erik still as Logan approached them down the hall, arms full of files. Immediately holding a baton to Erik’s back, Darwin murmured, “Steady, man.”

            When Logan noticed them he scowled openly and metal talons slid out an inch. “I just alphabetized,” he warned, glaring darkly at the inmate.

            To the surprise of both Darwin and Logan, Lehnsherr announced sincerely, “I’m sorry for the other day. It was uncalled for behavior.”

            Eyes narrowed, Logan gave him a cold once over and spoke to Darwin, “He planning something special today?”

            “He says no,” Darwin answered, unnerved by the relaxed smile on the inmate’s face.

            “Wait,” Logan said, now smirking. “You’re taking him to Xavier, aren’t you?”

            Darwin noticed the hackles rising slightly along Lehnsherr’s shoulders and frowned. “Yeah.”

            “Then no wonder he’s so happy,” Logan laughed. “Charles Xavier does that to people.” His tone was wistful and when he looked at Lehnsherr again the man was regarding him with intense curiosity, though it wasn’t threatening. Shrugging, he began to move back down the hall. “Xavier is a goddamn good man. I don’t blame you, Lehnsherr,” he added.

            Erik was silent the rest of the walk, contemplating Wolverine’s words. A thin thread of hope wound around his heart and tightened painfully.

 

...

 

            “It was brilliant,” he gushed, trailing gaily along behind Alex and Sean as they did rounds in Gen Pop. Sean turned to give him a look and Charles laughed self-deprecatingly. “Can you really blame me?”

            “I’m just impressed with how many positive adjectives you’ve come up with to describe blind-siding the Captain,” Sean intoned teasingly. “I didn’t know you were a musician.”

            Charles caught Alex’s eye roll before he got the joke. “I’m entitled to toot my own horn,” he protested, following them through the first set of iron doors leading to the free walkways.

            “Don’t you have a patient, like, now?” asked Alex, glancing up at the austere wall clock ticking mechanically over the foyer.

            “Oh,” Charles deflated, glancing up. “But aren’t you on your way to-“

            “Nope, not me today,” he clarified distractedly, holding the door open for another officer. “Darwin’s picking him up. Since we don’t know his ability yet Darwin’s still the safest staff to handle him.”

            Erik. He hadn’t realized. Charles slowed down to a stop. Sean and Alex turned to look curiously back at him. “I have to run up to my office first,” he murmured vaguely; mind flickering to the haunting newspaper picture of Erik after the police had apprehended him. It had been in the back of his mind and he’d brought the copy back with him. It sat inside his desk, a drawer all to itself as most of the contents ended up on the desktop anyway. As he pulled it out he made sure the picture was facing downwards. Though the image was practically branded on his mind, he preferred to be unclouded as possible when he met with Erik.

 

...

 

            It was an uncomfortable wait. Darwin shackled him to the chair, double checking everything. Erik kept swaying in his seat, craning his neck to see out the door.

            “Lehnsherr,” Darwin warned, “Stop squirming. You’re going to lose your cool guy card if you keep acting like a love-struck kid.” The inmate blinked dully at him and Darwin cracked a smile, rolling his eyes. “Just remember to keep yourself in line. I can’t stop you from looking but if you start shit, you’ll never see him again.”

            The two men scrutinized each other, Erik slumping seditiously in his seat.

 

...

 

            Charles looked a little flushed, Erik’s file and the newspaper clutched in his arms. On the way down he’d run in to Logan, who warned him that Moira was on the warpath after Charles’ little powwow with the Senator. And that he should keep a close eye on Lehnsherr.

            “He’s a sneaky bastard,” he insisted, face partially obscured by sky-high stacks of files.

            Now he tried to catch his breath, Darwin looking at him with droll amusement. And just past the guard sat Erik, green eyes already fixed on him with the same devastating intensity as always. They hadn’t spoken since Erik accused him of being a mental rapist. Right after Charles had forcefully began removing memories from Erik’s mind. He tried to slow his heartbeat, calm his breathing. Was he still angry? If he was being honest with himself, the horror of what he had almost done to an unwilling mutant haunted him.

            “Do want me in here?” Darwin murmured, eyes on Lehnsherr. Charles glanced at him as if he’d just remembered he was there and the guard’s frown deepened. “Maybe I should-“

            “No, that would violate the policy of confidentiality,” Charles said, shaking his head dismissively. “I appreciate that, Darwin. But I’ll be fine.”

            “Someone will be stationed right outside,” he let him know with a direct look. The counselor gave him a reassuring grin, though did little to alleviate Darwin’s caution. He made sure to catch Lehnsherr’s eye as he headed out.

            Taking his time to sit down and situate himself comfortably in the chair, Charles’ mind whirred with activity. He wanted to apologize to Erik; he wanted to punch him. But the fact that this was a patient reigned supreme and it was that authoritative voice that cultured his next words, “Well, Erik. I see on your file that you were involved in another incident-“

            “I’m sorry,” Erik blurted inelegantly. “You needed to hear that from me. Please.”

            His eyes lowered and he noticed Erik drop his head as if to stay in his line of vision. “Erik. I sincerely apologize for that entire encounter. And the others.” Erik’s face fell and Charles grimaced. “We need to move on from that.” Swallowing, he went on carefully, “If it continues to be an issue than I encourage you to file a complaint-“

            “Charles!” he barked, his aggravation waking the metal surrounding him. “You can’t pretend-“

            “As I said,” he articulated with a raised voice, “You may file a complaint.”

            “You throw up this wall to lock me out, Charles,” he insisted.

            “The relationship between a counselor and his patient,” Charles recited, “is like a river.”

            “It only flows one way,” Erik concluded morosely. 

            As the mask he’d become increasingly familiar with began to descend over the inmate’s face, he leaned forward, “Don’t hide Erik. Please. You don’t realize that I _am_ here to help you.”

            “Charles, you know that there’s something between us. I’m not crazy,” he demanded.

            “Sure-fire way to get people to think you’re crazy,” he joked lamely, ultimately sighing and rubbing his temples when Erik just stared at him expectantly. “Why did you attack Logan?”

            “I didn’t attack him,” he denied bluntly. “I punched him.”

            “Big difference,” he snorted, smiling. Erik seemed to relax, making a constricted movement with his hand that Charles guessed would have been a gracefully unconcerned wave. “Now why did you do it?”

            It all rushed to the forefront; everything he wanted to confess to Charles. But that would only accomplish an even bigger gap between them; maybe he’d never see Charles again. After a few pregnant moments he finally conceded, “I apologized to him.”

            “If only all the troubles in the world could be fixed with an apology,” Charles mused, flipping open Erik’s file. Easily slipping into counselor mode, the tension melted off of him and with an almost detached, scientific eye he reviewed Erik’s record. The newspaper sat there like a burning signal on the table, beneath a few papers. It wasn’t time for that yet, though he was anxious to question the mutant about his past. It might shed some light on who he was.

            “I just want to be forgiven,” he murmured, catching Charles’ somewhat surprised glance. When the counselor was caught off guard his face held the most beautiful open expression. Motioning to the file, he made the point, “I’ve had almost no issue; and that last... matter was high unusual behavior.”

            “Erik,” he laughed, “You sound like a recording. I’ll accept that you are truly remorseful if you can tell me _why_ you punched a staff member. Or as the record does indeed list it: assaulted.” Waiting patiently, Charles coaxed, “Maybe you don’t know why you did?”

            “Are you in my head?” he cautiously asked.

            Sitting forward, Charles insisted fervently, “No, I’m not. Considering the circumstances I’m going to do this the old fashioned way and trust that you won’t lie to me, Erik.”

            His heart jumped slightly. Charles had spoken his name in such an ardent manner. Stunned, he didn’t reply before Charles began talking again. 

            “The staff here see you as a perfectly respectable person,” he informed Erik. “But I worry you’re winding yourself into a state of extreme emotional pressure. Any incident, as you’ve pointed out, has been antagonistic _towards_ you, not from you. Minus the most recent occurrence.” Taking a deep breath, Charles reached forward to uncover the newspaper. “From this point on, Erik, if at any moment you feel threatened or uncomfortable inform me immediately and I will stop.”

            “Stop what-“ he began, and then he saw it. His own face. Slightly younger, darker, hollow. His eyes grew hard. “Where in the world did you pick that up? Lining bird cages, I’d suspect.”

            Pushing the article across the table, Charles quietly spoke, “I’d like to talk about this, Erik. It seems that you never got closure-“ The inmate snorted and Charles’ eyes widened in surprise. Gray-green eyes floated unfeeling over the print, looking at it as one would an unflattering picture from childhood. “Honestly, Erik, “ he intoned earnestly, “It worries me that you aren’t more effected by this. It’s a very real concern that you may have – in shock – suppressed the emotions from this traumatizing episode.”

            “And you think that I’m just a ticking time bomb at this point,” Erik replied dully.

            “What do _you_ think?” The question must have been funny to Erik because warm amusement filled his gaze and Charles pursed his lips, frustrated. “I’d appreciate if you took this seriously, Erik.”

            “I do, Charles,” he insisted, sifting to the edge of his seat. “I take you very seriously.”

            Working his lips, Charles craned his neck as the collar of his shirt suddenly felt hot. “I acknowledge that, thank you. But,” he continued firmly, “The purpose of this session is to explore your state of being here at Juniper.” Maybe that was laying it on a little thick. “I would just like to know where you’re at. How you are.”

            “I’m fine,” Erik was quick to retort, snapping his mouth shut sheepishly when Charles shot him a look. “I’m... I _feel_ fine.” Somewhere inside a part of Erik was frowning. When had his vicious little songbird grown such sharp talons? “I don’t understand why we need to find something wrong when there _isn’t_ anything wrong.” He faded into silence as he saw the painful, disheartened expression drifting over Charles’ face. Chest tightened with an unnamed emotion, Erik’s face went blank as Charles gingerly folded out the rest of the article, spreading it out over the low table sitting between them. Erik stared down at himself impassively.

            He was just about to do what he was sure his very cold and distant mother would call nit-pick when a slow, nauseous ache spiraled through him. Lips twisting, he pitched forward, pressing his palm to his forehead.

            “Charles?” Erik asked immediately, “Charles, what’s wrong?”

            “It’s nothing,” he groaned, half in irritation, half in pain, “Damn injections, Hank.”

            A blessedly cool hand pressed his forehead and he leaned into it thankfully, relief spreading from the touch.

            Wait.

            He leapt up, spilling Erik’s files all over the floor. Standing half out of his seat, hand still poised where Charles had just been sitting, Erik suddenly realized what he was doing. Switching gears, he quickly retreated into his chair and held up his hands defensively, "Charles, please..." He trailed off lamely.

            Eyes darting all over Erik as if he was made of smoke, Charles asked with exaggerated calm, "How did you get out of those?"

            Gaze beseeching, Erik forced a laugh, mentally berating himself. "They didn't lock them properly."

            He narrowed his eyes, the blue glittering like sapphire in the light. "Again? Interesting." Sitting back down, Charles crossed one leg over the other casually, leaning back with a skeptical expression. “Are you some sort of lock pick?”

            Glad that the other man wasn’t hailing the guards or yelling at him, Erik shrugged convincingly. “I told you. Houdini.”

            “That was awfully fast,” he mused, eyes snapping up to lock onto Erik. “Even for Houdini.”

            Shying under the disquieting calm with which Charles was looking at him, Erik meekly suggested, “I could put them back on.”

            Charles took his time to contemplate, filing away every tiny reaction he could see on Erik’s exression, which bled into his countenance until his strong handsome face had reverted to childish guilt; waiting for the parent to administer the punishment. Witnessing all of this, Charles felt no threat from Erik; the inmate had reacted out of concern for him in the first place. The ache currently lording over his head was secondary to the myriad of emotions moving through Erik’s suddenly expressive eyes. “Don’t,” he said simply, smiling behind his fingers when Erik’s brows knit together comically. “You feel more comfortable this way, yes?”

            “Not if you’re just going to use it against me later. Don’t forget you dislike crossing boundaries,” he pointed out petulantly, sitting back with an attractive grace to mirror Charles’ relaxed posture. Outside the sun had shifted so that an almost savage orange light swamped the room. Across from him Charles was a statue of dripping gold, his eyes breathtaking pools of muddy cerulean. “I don’t want to cross any boundaries without clear consent.”

            Quieting the nervous flutter on the edge of his consciousness, Charles smiled around the finger pressed thoughtfully to his lips. “You’re safe. After all,” he remarked. “I _am_ a telepath.”

            Erik smiled secretly and nodded in acquiescence.

 

...

 

            Somehow they both had found themselves sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbows resting on the low table. Charles had his chin set on his folded arms, peering up at Erik who was leaning on one hand, looking back down at Charles with a smile so radiant that every tooth was visible.

            “It certainly sounds better than tripe,” he gasped through peals of laughter. “Though I’m hopeless to pronounce it.”

            “You’d have to be born with it,” Erik joked back. Underneath the table he could feel the heat from Charles’ knees just centimeters from his own. It was hard not to focus completely on it, though listening to Charles laugh, seeing his smile, was more than enough to keep him distracted from his juvenile pining. “Try again.”

            “Now you’re just making fun of me,” Charles sighed, though his eyes sparkled. “All right. Hulooztis.”

             “Huluptzes,” he corrected, loving the way Charles fumbled the name.

            “I’m at an unfair disadvantage,” he complained, stretching.

            Erik leaned back against the chair, crooking one leg up to prop his elbow upon it. Though he didn’t want to talk about it the way Charles had planned, he couldn’t help but be curious about how the counselor had gotten his hands on a copy of the newspaper. Prodding said article with a finger, he mentioned casually, “I didn’t think this was around anymore. Did you go rooting around in historical records for it?”

            “Not quite,” he said, spinning the article back towards himself to glance over it again. “I happened upon it while collecting books for the library.”

            Sitting up straighter, Erik cleared his throat, “Oh?”

            Giving him an amused look, Charles said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It was supposed to be kept quiet, so of course the entire prison knows about it.”

            Embarrassed slightly by the obviousness of his feign, Erik shrugged. “I’ve heard it’s going to be manned by inmates. Don’t you think that’s risky?” He tried to keep the hopeful note out of his voice, but Charles didn’t seem to notice anyway.

            “But that’s the beauty of it,” he said excitedly. “I want the inmates to know that this is their space. Not all of them might get to see it in person-” a few distinct faces flashed through his mind in rapid succession “-but they know it’s there for them. Even those in solitary will be able to check out books.”

            Erik could do nothing but stare at the delight on Charles’ face. There wasn’t a scrap of selfishness about the man; his enthusiasm for the library was solely because it would benefit the inmates. Shaking his head in disbelief, Erik confessed, “You baffle me, Charles.”

            Waving the other man off, aware of the damning blush creeping up his neck, he glanced at the clock and cursed. “How in the world did you do that?” Cutting a mock-frown at the other man, he narrowed his eyes. “You sure you’re not a telepath? There’s no way the entire hour could’ve gone past without my noticing it.”

            “Time flies when you’re having fun,” he boasted. But the counselor was standing, real concern written over his fine features. He saw him looking worriedly at the abandoned shackles. “Charles,” he beseeched, “I’ll put them back on. Please don’t think that I’d ever-“

            “ _Get down_!”

            The suddenness of the order shocked Charles and he whipped his head over to see Darwin standing in the doorway with his baton raised. His smooth, dark skin was shifting like water beneath colorful lights.

            “Lehnsherr,” he barked, “Get. Down.” Moving swiftly, he kicked the low table out of the way. The tinny smell of blood wafted up as the organic shield covering his chest kept a malleable form as if in waiting. They still didn’t know Lehnsherr’s power after all.

            Hands placed on the back of his head, Erik slowly dropped to his knees. His eyes were on the baton the guard held in his hand, raised to strike. It was made of heavy wood. Erik knew how much those hurt.

            Acting quickly, Charles placed himself in between the inmate and the guard, wincing when a shadow passed through Darwin’s usually warm brown eyes as he did so. He sent calming waves towards the guard and reached gently into his mind.

            _I’m in no danger. You’re in no danger. Darwin, please._ I _undid the cuffs._

Baton still raised, he glared at Charles with real anger. “You _what_?”

            “Look, I’m putting them back on,” Erik interrupted, slipping back into the cuffs and resisting the urge to use his power to speed along the process. He snapped the first one closed before Charles was at his side. Gentle hands assisted Erik and Darwin’s obvious curses melted away as Charles’s fingers slid along his wrists.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “This is entirely my fault. I won’t let them punish you for this.”

            “It would be worth it,” Erik said quickly, meeting Charles eyes at level.

            Gruffly Darwin pushed Charles aside and tightened the cuffs. Keeping Lehnsherr pinned with a stony glare he radioed for backup. Alex appeared only a few seconds later, the air sharp with the electric bite of his power.

            “There’s no need for that,” Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alex, please.”

            “Take him back down,” Darwin ordered flatly, ignoring the obvious affront on Alex’s face at his curt tone. “I want him in solitary. No contact.”

            Raising his eyebrows, Alex glanced between the three of them. Charles looked the most upset, but the counselor was keeping quiet while Alex unclipped the inmate from the chair and led him out. He met another guard out in the hall and together they escorted the silent mutant back down to solitary without any incident.

            Back in the counseling room Charles and Darwin were looking at each other silently. The shorter man stood in a defensive pose, arms crossed protectively.

            Darwin sat heavily in the chair Erik was supposed to have been bound to throughout the counseling session. He snorted, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand. “Charles,” he started. “I don’t have to tell you how stupid that was - _is_.”

            “Yes.” He tried not to sound sullen, but he’d never done well with lectures. Even _if_ he was clearly in the wrong. “I’m aware.”

            “You’re aware,” he mimicked, rolling his eyes. “You’re gonna need to do better than that. Especially if I’m _not_ going to report you.”

            Startled, Charles slid into his chair across from the other man. “You mean-“

            “I don’t mean anything right now,” he said sharply. But he quickly deflated, staring at Charles in exasperation. “I know the good you’re doing here. I’ve never seen Juggernaut so content and even Sinister is cracking a smile. And this library-” Shaking his head, Darwin threw up his hands. “Who knew these guys could get so excited over books. Everyone’s on their best behavior so that they can get a chance to check one out.”

            He could do nothing but blink at his friend. Was it true? Had the library made such an impact in such a short time? At a loss for how to reply he instead mentioned, “We don’t have a name yet. I wanted the inmates to have a say.”

            “They’ll like that,” Darwin agreed thoughtfully. “Listen, Charles. _Don’t_ do this again. No more exceptions for Lehnsherr.”

            Swallowing down a tight throat, Charles nodded. “No more exceptions.”

 

…

 

            “The senator’s here,” Sean announced the next week, poking his head into Charles’ office.

            Hank glanced up from his work curiously. “Now? I thought he wasn’t scheduled for-“

            “Quaint,” Senator McCone observed, easily pushing past Sean into the cramped office. His eyes moved over the books then over Charles messy desk. “Very quaint. Where’s the counselor?”

            “Out,” Hank supplied helpfully, meeting Sean’s eyes over the Senator’s shoulder doubtfully. “He’s meeting with the potential library assistant-“

            “The inmate,” the senator interrupted.

            “Ah, yes,” he confirmed, eyebrows shooting up when McCone abruptly turned and left.

            Sean stumbled after the lanky man, sparing Hank a panicked glance.

            A few minutes later Captain Moira McTaggert herself opened the cell door with a tight-lipped smile, ushering the Senator inside. The two men seated on the bare cot both stood, Charles moving forward to take the Senator’s hand in a firm grip, his surprise at this sudden appearance smoothed away and replaced by the same radiant grin that had won the man over in the first place. Sinister was endlessly amused by Charles Xavier’s effortless shift of gears into shameless schmoozing mode. He waited patiently until Charles drew the Senator over to him, introducing him as Mister Nathaniel Essex.

            Prepared with his own cultured charm, Sinister extended a greeting and shook the Senator’s hand, “It’s my honor to meet you Senator McCone. Welcome to Juniper.” His voice was practically a purr. The counselor might be charming and equally disarming with his boyish features and enchanting accent, but Sinister came from the Old World. Lingering effects of the Victorian age awarded him infectious magnetism that in his prime sent these gauche Americans swooning regularly. And if the Senator’s pleased grin was anything to go on, Sinister had done a smashing job.

            With the Senator listening attentively, Charles finished going over every stipulation the Captain had decreed for an inmate working in the library. Once the roof was cleaned and polished Sean – and any other guard on observation duty - could see in easily from the tower. The library’s interior was also visible from the Captain’s office and the guards’ regular rounds would now include the library.

            “If I may,” Sinister interjected smoothly, crimson irises vivid in the shadowy light of the cell, “with this much supervision, I believe including a rehabilitation aspect for well-behaved inmates would be possible.”

            Looking dubious, the Senator grunted, “What’s he mean, Xavier?”

            “It’s Nathaniel’s personal project,” Charles said slowly, scrambling for a lie. “Mister Essex, could you elaborate for Senator McCone?” They hadn’t discussed this, but Charles didn’t want to outright contradict Sinister in front of the Senator.

            “I seek to give opportunities to the young men in this institution who may benefit from task-based work,” he described easily. “It seems unbalanced to allow only myself to work within the library. My qualifications come from my _spotless_ -“ he glanced at Xavier “-behavior record and relevant experience.” Pausing for the Senator to work through his words, he continued, “An apprenticeship program.” Xavier looked thoughtful out of the corner of his eye.

            “The walls are set to be reinforced and besides the main entrance connected directly to Juniper’s main building, there is a highly secured staff entrance. I can’t foresee any foundational reasons why that would be objectionable,” Charles informed McCone with flawless delivery. Though it was the first he was hearing of it, he trusted Sinister enough to support what sounded like a viable and positive program. No harm could be done with an apprenticeship, and if Sinister thought he might need help around the library then Charles wouldn’t be the one to stop him.

            “You sound like you have someone in mind,” McCone implied ingenuously.

            “Yes,” Sinister admitted, smiling. “A perfect candidate.”

            He considered opening a side conversation with Sinister, maybe to divert this current route. Charles wanted to be able to okay whoever Sinister had in mind before the Senator was brought on board. Then he’d be left with his hands tied.

            “His name is Erik Lehnsherr,” Sinister divulged innocently. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

            “The mutant that slaughtered all those people,” McCone confirmed, expression darkening.

            “A perfect opportunity,” Sinister corrected.

            Charles was fully aware of the artful way Sinister had shoved him aside in order to gain the senator’s full attention. At the risk of seeming unprofessional, Charles held his tongue. A tendril of thought lashed out none too subtly at Sinister, but the other telepath batted it aside.

            “How so?” McCcone asked bluntly.

            “This library is already a smart move on your part, sir,” Sinister practically cooed. “Humanizing the prisoners, comforting the families on the mainland with the knowledge that all good little boys get tucked in at night with a bedtime story.” A smile curled along his mouth, eyes flashing. “But there are those who will still know about the monsters hiding out here on the island. Let’s not beat around the bush, Senator. This can be inordinately beneficial to your up-and-coming campaign.”

            “I’m not following,” the senator said curtly, his demeanor changing into something more defensive.

            Charles wondered what Sinister was getting at.

            “An achievement of the mutant prison system,” Sinister revealed masterfully, sweeping his graceful hands out dramatic flare. “To rehabilitate such a monster; faith in the mutant prison system will be renewed.” Settling back, holding the Senator’s gaze unflinchingly, Sinister reassured him, “Voters will see that you are a humanitarian who works tirelessly to keep them safe and civilize the mutants. You can create an island paradise the dangerous mutants wouldn’t dream about leaving.”

            Biting his lip, Charles opened his mouth to execute damage control, but McCone beat him to the punch by laughing.

            “No bullshit, Mister Essex,” he acknowledged with grudging respect, “I like that.”

            “Life is too short,” he agreed, voice like velvet.

            “Well, you men handle the logistics of this place and I’ll handle the public,” he sanctioned happily, standing. “I’d like to get a photo before I leave here today, gentlemen. Get this in the papers sooner rather than later, eh?”

            As soon as the crack of the bulb flashed, temporarily blinding him as the Senator sped off to make plans and the harried photographer went chasing after him, Charles turned to Sinister. “I have no idea what to say.”

            “Don’t worry yourself then, Xavier,” Sinister drawled.

            “But why him,” he murmured, pulling the mutant aside. “Why Erik Lehnsherr?”

            “Just as I said; he’s the perfect candidate,” Sinister cryptically answered.

            Charles didn’t miss the coy smile, nor the faint whisper across his consciousness; _Why Lehnsherr indeed, Charles Xavier?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this has been a very boring stretch of chapters. Things will be picking up next chapter—my target is all your feels.


	9. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always aim for posting on Tuesgays... and always fail miserably. : /

            “Bringing a mutant criminal into an unsupervised space? Are you _crazy_?” the Captain blurted as soon as Charles meekly entered the office. A storm cloud in a tweed pantsuit, she hovered over him dangerously. Logan peeked in once for a signature, but booked it out of there as soon at the tension in the air snapped at him.

            “It won’t be entirely unsupervised,” he pointed out weakly, nearly cowering beneath her seething scowl. “As I outlined in the-“

            “ _Charles_ ,” she warned, eventually collapsing into her chair, rubbing at her temples. “There’s suddenly a lot riding on this. A lot.” Her expression softened. “Although it looks like this library project has both sides of the aisle optimistic. Even a few anti-mutant _and_ pro-mutant groups have written letters of support.”

            He perked up. “That’s wonderful.”

            “It’s wonderful until something goes wrong,” she cautioned him softly.

            A few minutes later Oliver stood respectfully at the main office door, his gardener’s hat clasped in his hands. As the Captain and Charles filed out after him, Logan called, “Good luck!”

            They made their way down through the newly reinforced entrance connected directly to Juniper. Charles had barely any time to check on progress in the greenhouse, too busy making title listings and planning out how to categorize what and where. Hank had caught some of his enthusiasm and manufactured a card-based check-out system kept neatly in a remodeled card folder. The rest of his time between sessions with inmates was spent huddled over the books in his office or with a box or two in his room, tirelessly applying the tracking numbers. In Logan’s opinion – which he expressed skeptically until Charles bullied him into helping – the counselor was far too thrilled with sticking on the alphabetical tape, the genre color sticker, and sneakily attaching a tiny dot to the backs of the pages beneath the spines.

            “It’s a library, not Fort Knox,” Logan grumbled, carefully aligning the letters B and A along the spine of a book written by an author with the last name “Bailey”. Satisfied with his handiwork, he set the book down and glanced at his roommate. “It’s not like they can steal these.”

            “Principle of the thing,” Charles had replied good-naturedly, using tweezers to straighten the letter labels.

            Now as he followed Oliver and Moira a coil of excitement wound tight in his stomach, fingers still slightly stiff from all the careful labeling that had kept him and Logan up half the night. Oliver turned to grin at them, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

            “Oliver,” Charles exhaled, eyes wide and bright as he soaked everything in.

            Even Captain Moira made an impressed noise, stalking forward to prod at the shelves. They were deep carmine red, metal with neatly rounded corners. They stacked seven shelves up, rows upon rows that stretched across the space. The floor was still ruddy cement, but shone with new polish, the former troughs for crops smoothly filled with more cement to stabilize the shelves. Rolling up the stone walls was a soft mantis green, contrasting beautifully with the red of the shelves and the deep polished gray of the floor. To the right of the entrance, tucked away in an open corner, was a cheery desk. A worn but comfortable looking chair was propped behind it, and Hank’s card catalogue set atop the desk, already bolted down. A soft felt marker, chained subtly to the desk as well, sat neatly next to the catalogue.

            Outside it was muggy and gray, drizzle streaking the glass ceiling and walls. The lights cast a cheerful golden glow over the space and Charles crossed his arms over his chest as an unnamed emotion clouded his eyes. It was perfect.

 

…

 

            Sinister was smirking when Erik met him, waiting patiently as they were chained together to be escorted down to the library. Once they started walking he allowed himself a small smile, bursting into a full-blown grin when they were walked along a hall with wide windows showcasing the roiling sea outside, rain slapping frantically against the glass. It was one of those days where the sky was gunmetal, the sea an angry pewter color, and the grass a vivid gold whipping across the ground with the force of the wind. Erik took a deep breath, heart racing as they got closer to the library. Charles.

            The counselor was alone by the time they arrived, sleeves already rolled up as he pulled book after book out of the boxes brought down from his office. He glanced over at the door before his eyes got stuck on Erik, lips quirking as the mutant’s infectious grin came into view. Standing quietly next to him, Sinister looked around appreciatively before he caught Charles’ gaze and nodded his approval.

            At first Charles frowned when the guard who’d brought the two men in fetched a stepladder. Wordlessly the guard stepped up and attached two separate chains to tube-like bars snaking intricately across the ceiling. Charles hadn’t seen them before and now he looked at them dubiously, stepping out of the way as the guard trailed the chains over and attached them to the handcuffs Erik wore. He repeated the process for Sinister and Charles realized with a bitter taste in his mouth that they were basically leashes. Before he could argue, the guard left.

            “You can’t say you didn’t expect this Xavier,” Sinister pointed out, testing the perimeter of his lead, walking around with crimson eyes fixed above his head. The metal circle wrapped in rubber slid along the bars mapped over the ceiling. He tugged experimentally, forced to stop roughly 6 feet from the exit. Chuckling, he looked back at his companions.

            Erik was too busy looking at Charles to care whether he was tethered like a dog. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t go anywhere anyway. But the psychiatrist looked sincerely dismayed, blue eyes moving over the labyrinthine guides on the ceiling. Moving forward, Erik murmured, “If it means we get to be here then it doesn’t matter, does it?” Charles turned to look at him searchingly, handsome face breaking into a soft smile.

            “I suppose you’re right.” He looked over at Sinister as the mutant was poking around the check-out desk. “We have a lot of work to do, gentlemen.”

            The first box was opened, and soon the three of them were busily sorting. Sinister volunteered to take mysteries, shooting Erik a pointed glance as he slid down to the other end of the room. Flushing from his neck to the high tops of his cheekbones, Erik looked worriedly down at Charles in case the counselor had caught the look. Unsurprisingly, Charles was completely oblivious, attempting to lift far too many volumes at once out of a box. Instinctually Erik knelt down and helped him, their fingers touching across the worn backs of books. Their eyes met and Erik’s heart clenched at the shadow of concern that crossed Charles’s face. Setting the pile down quickly he ran a hand through his hair and it was accompanied by a musical chime of metal from the chains. Staring at them as they swayed slowly through the air, he said, “The colors today are so vivid.”

            The corners of Charles’ eyes crinkled as he grinned. “It’s a bit like being outside, isn’t it? You won’t have to escape to the roof anymore.” Thumbing through the pages of a book, he asked flippantly, “Do you like it?”

            There was a lot of weight in that question, so Erik took his time. He let his eyes wander over the boxes of books, the shelves, back up along the line of his chain to the glass ceiling that continued to erupt with raindrops. The quiet was muted, carried faintly by the sound of the rain outside. Distantly Erik remembered a car wash he’d been through while on his own, driving around the country. He’d chosen to remain inside the car, pressing his hands against the throbbing glass as water, soapsuds, and massive brushes battered the metal structure. There weren’t words to describe the strange cozy net of safety he’d felt being enclosed in the epicenter of a storm, even if it had been manmade. It was similar to this feeling now. “It’s wonderful, Charles,” he answered sincerely and didn’t miss the light dusting of pink over the other man’s cheeks.  “It feels like...” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “Like a sanctuary.”

            He beamed, dropping his gaze and biting his lip. “That’s precisely what it should be,” he whispered, glancing back up to meet Erik’s gaze, suddenly so intense that Charles’ breath left him. The mutant’s hand was frozen, inches from Charles’ face; eyes a torrent of emotions. At the last moment the chain had gone taught, merely a ghost of touch brushing an invisible sensation across his cheek. He held his breath.

            “I do believe a guard is about 4 seconds away from checking in with you, Xavier,” Sinister informed them primly, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Three, two, one-”

            Charles snapped to attention as Alex poked his head in.

            “Everything good here?” he asked, “Whoa, it looks great, man!”

            “Thank you, Alex,” Charles murmured, cheeks aflame. Standing and clearing his throat, he stuck his hands in his pockets and meandered over to the guard. Alex was poking at the shelves and tugging on the chain leading to Sinister’s wrists. “Everything is going swimmingly.”

            “I was also stopping by,” he said in a low voice, pulling Charles over to the side, “to tell you that Mojo’s made a complete recovery.”

            Charles’ heart skipped. “Oh, has he?”

            “He’s asking for you.”

            “Nothing new,” Charles assured him. “I trust he’s back down in solitary?”

            “Yeah,” he said, looking at Charles with an unreadable expression. “Tried to climb the walls a few times; we had to shoot him down.”

            “Jesus,” he breathed, a cold oily feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The thought of Mojo, like some giant white arachnid, scrambling up through the slimy dark... Charles openly shuddered.

            “The Captain is reviewing his case file now,” he continued, “And you might be called in to, uh, put him to sleep.” At Charles’ baffled expression he added quickly, “So to speak.”

            Sinister had sidled up next to Lehnsherr, both of them doing a poor job of pretending not to eavesdrop.

            “It’s always Mojo,” Erik hissed, expression dark.

            Sinister chuckled conspiratorially, “Can you blame the lunatic? Xavier is hard to resist. But you know that well enough yourself.”

            Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “I wanted to give you a heads up in case she calls you in, all right?”

            Brow knit in thought, Charles hummed an acknowledgment; eyes following distantly as Alex made his exit. Would Moira actually ask that of him? To purposefully put someone in a vegetative state – if he’d understood what Alex was implying. It went against everything Charles believed, and yet... Mojo, he’d decided long ago, was beyond recovery. He hadn’t a scrap of remorse in his entire body. The scrambled mess that was his mind projected nothing but darkness, rage, and memories soaked in blood. But still, could Charles do it when the time came? Could he truly be the one to condemn the mutant?

            “My, my,” Sinister mused, “Whatever could that have been about to leave you so very distracted, Counselor?”

            He turned to see both inmates regarding him with vastly different expressions. Erik’s face was stormy; knuckles nearly white over the book he was gripping. Sinister was smirking, red eyes moving lingeringly over Charles as if appraising him. The two of them looked comically ill matched and Charles found himself smiling back at them.

            “Distracted? Not me,” he said cheekily, returning to take the book gently from Erik’s hand. “Ah, Winnie the Pooh.” His tone was fond as he stroked the spine of the book. “One of my favorite’s as a child.”

            Sinister slunk back to his post at the other end of the library, rolling his eyes as the tension riding Erik’s shoulders melted away under the bright warmth of Xavier’s attention. If only Lehnsherr could see himself. Ridiculous. Not that Sinister didn’t make sure he had a good view in case things got interesting.

            “I fancied myself like Christopher Robin,” admitted Charles wistfully.

            “I always figured he had a good reason to flee to the Hundred Acre Wood,” Erik said, flipping through the pages. “He must’ve been a lonely kid.”

            Laughing, Charles cocked his head and peered amusedly into the inmate’s eyes. “How do you figure?”

            Shrugging, Erik snapped the book shut. “Well, it’s obvious he didn’t have any real friends. No siblings, or maybe they beat up on him.” He frowned at the distinct shift of light in Charles’ gaze. “They were just stuffed animals in the end.”

            “I wouldn’t fault someone who has imagination,” he replied carefully, taking the book back to draw his fingers over the cloth letters. “Every child has imaginary friends, don’t they?”

            “Some don’t have the time,” Erik mused hollowly. “Not much room left with all the nightmares.” He blinked, surprised at his words. Charles’ concerned blue eyes swam into focus and Erik shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he insisted, hand drifting to grip the other man’s arm. “Erik, you don’t have to be sorry about something you didn’t deserve.”

            His smile was wan. “I’m not apologizing for my childhood, Charles. I just shouldn’t burden you with my memories.”

            Frustrated, Charles pitched his voice lower, glancing in Sinister’s direction. “Erik, it is _not_ a burden to _talk_ to someone. Especially when I am so willing to listen.”

            “You can’t help me, Charles.”

            “Only because you won’t let me,” he snapped, immediately regretting his tone when Erik’s eyebrow quirked and the ever-familiar mask began to slip into place. “No, please... Erik. You don’t realize how much good it will do you.”

            Warmth bled from Charles’ hand. Erik was looking down at it, resting on his arm. Slowly taking Charles by the wrist, he pushed the other man’s fingers down until they rested over the row of numbers marring his skin. “My past isn’t an infection that I can drain out. This ink has stained me.”

            “This ink is testament to your strength, Erik,” he whispered fiercely.

            “Strength didn’t keep me alive in the camps,” corrected Erik snidely. “It was twisted luck. Plenty of strong, beautiful people fell in those camps. Strength had nothing to do with it. When your choice is a bullet or the gas, strength means _nothing_.”

            The bones creaked in his wrist, but Charles’ refused to back down. “You’re wrong, Erik. You didn’t just survive the camps; you survived the aftermath.”

            “Anger helps,” he said harshly, dropping Charles’ wrist and turning back to the books.

            “There’s more to you than that, Erik.”

            “Are you so sure, Charles?” he asked wearily.

            Coming close, Charles caught Erik’s eyes and held them. “I’ve _seen_ you, Erik.” Pressing his hand over the mutant’s heart, he murmured, “I’ve _seen_.”

            “You’ve peeped,” he amended, eyes snapping to the counselor’s mouth downturned in a petulant frown.

            Snorting, Charles withdrew. “That’s all a telepath needs. You should quit denying your good qualities, Erik.”

            “They _are_ so few and far between after all,” he jokingly divulged, smile fading slightly as the psychiatrist regarded him with a deceptively thoughtful expression. He bit his lip, raising his hand to trace Charles’ jawline, looking a little lost when the man drew away.

            “Erik,” he whispered, “boundaries.”

            “I wanted-” he faltered, “I’ve seen you too, Charles.” There was no way he would tell him what he’d heard that night through the pipes, when Charles had told Logan about his childhood devoid of affection. About the Academy, about being killed, over and over. Something akin to fear lit within Charles’ eyes and Erik’s heart clenched. “I _want_ to talk to you, Charles. But not like this. Not here.” He motioned with his hands and winced as Charles realized he didn’t just mean the library, but all of Juniper.

            “There is _only_ here,” Charles hissed, drawing further away. He reached out mentally, nearly flinching with the adamant rush of _concern-concern-please-understand_ that was pouring from Erik’s mind like a fount. “Erik, you’re not getting out,” he pressed, emotion threaded through his voice thick enough to choke on. “There’s only Juniper.”

            Crimson eyes peering through gaps in the shelves crinkled around the edges as Sinister smiled crookedly.

 

...

 

            Oliver handled the paintbrush with surprising skill, his letters perhaps not as whimsical as those decorating the mainland library, but no less inviting. Charles had his arms crossed while he leaned against the wall, Sean standing next to him to watch before heading back up to the crow’s nest. With one last curled tail on the Y, Oliver leaned back to survey his work.

            “What do we think,” he yelled down from the ladder.

            Sean gave him two thumbs up, grinning. Charles chuckled, “It’s wonderful, Oliver. Thank you. The Senator will quite like it, I’m sure.” He walked forward to pluck idly at the red ribbon strung across the entrance. Later the Senator would be blowing through with his trusty photographer to cut the ribbon and officially open the library for use. Not that inmates hadn’t already been checking out books for the past week. Rather successfully, too. Sinister had proven himself an excellent librarian, and Erik a competent assistant. Charles’ mind skirted around Erik, memory still bitter at their last encounter. Nevertheless, the inmate had been part of the library’s great success despite the unfortunate naming process, which in the end left the inmates out entirely. McCone had ordered the library christened with his name and Captain Moira couldn’t refuse, especially with Stryker breathing down her neck.

            Regardless of the official title, it seemed that Erik wasn’t the only one who’d had a mind for the small haven the library represented. Inmates had taken to calling it The Sanctuary. The behavior logs sat empty, morale was on the rise amongst guards, and inmates could be seen perched in gen pop reading westerns, mysteries, horror stories. Juggernaut had brought Winnie the Pooh to his last session so that he could read aloud while Charles listened.

            Sinister spent his time drawing up recommendation lists for the inmates in solitary, using his ability time and time again to piece together a particular title or find an author. Though he’d never admit it to the counselor, he hadn’t been so content in years.

            With fewer incidents around the prison, more guards were able to provide chaperon service from a cell to the library, so on any given day the floor would be filled with milling inmates. Even Captain Moira, with a grinning Logan, had to admit that Charles’ harebrained optimist idea had panned out beautifully.

            Straightening his tie awkwardly (though not so much his tie as one of Hank’s), Charles waved as Oliver loaded up the paint and the ladder to head back out to the grounds. Sean had slipped away to the tower already, leaving Charles alone. Running his fingers over the red velvet ribbon, he chuckled to himself; apparently the Senator had his own pair of giant scissors for just this occasion. A sound caught his attention and he turned to see an irate Alex accompanied by Sinister and Erik.

            “Alex?” he ventured, smiling at the two inmates.

            “That damn senator sure likes to be inconveniently early,” he growled. “The Captain’s frantic trying to get ready and Stryker’s on his way as we speak.”

            “And McCone, where is he?” Charles asked.

            “Here, Xavier,” the Senator barked jovially, striding down the hall with a frazzled looking Moira. The photographer looked resigned as ever, his droopy face melancholy as Charles remembered from the hastily taken photographs the last time the Senator had been by.

            “Welcome, Senator,” he greeted faintly, meeting Alex’s wry look.

            “Looks good, looks great!” he chimed loudly, spinning on his heel with arms akimbo. “We ready to get this show on the road or what?”

            The camera was set up in record time, the photographer’s practiced hands snapping pieces into place with a telling second nature. Stryker came huffing into view; tie on crooked and expression tight. McCone barked a greeting, clapping him on the back with a laughing, “Workin’ too hard, William!”

            With a voice like droplets of water, the photographer issued mild orders, lining them up. Charles jumped slightly when the Senator pulled a giant pair of scissors free from the equipment bag the photographer had lugged in. He was situated between Charles and Moira, flanked in turn by Stryker on Moira’s left and the two inmates on Charles right. The Senator was turned, blades poised over the ribbon, grinning garishly for the camera.

            “And hold,” the photographer dripped, snapping a shot with the unsettling crack of the bulb. “Alright, now one more. Mr. Xavier, could you hold the ribbon for – yes.”

            Charles was looking at the camera when he felt the ribbon separate, fluttering to the ground, one end hanging loosely from his hand. Another crack of the bulb flashed in his eyes and then the Senator was shaking his hand with the strong, sure grip of a politician.

            They left in a train, the photographer bringing up the rear as he struggled to collect the equipment, cursing as the heavy scissors swung at his leg. The Captain and Stryker had already disappeared, close on Senator McCone’s heels.

            Blinking away the fuzzy stain from the camera flashes, Charles turned sympathetically to an amused Sinister and a dazed looking Erik. “An abrupt man, the Senator.”

            “Don’t flatter him, Xavier,” Sinister murmured coyly, snapping the remains of the ribbon free from the wall. “Back to the grind, gentleman?”

            Erik looked slightly distraught. Sinister shot him a look as the counselor rubbed at his eyes. “Lehnsherr?”

            “What papers will circulate that photo?” he asked, voice superficially light.

            Mister Sinister shrugged, “I’d assume the state at the very least. Though who knows, our dear Senator is an ambitious man. I wouldn’t be surprised if it ran nationally.”

            “I’m sure it will,” Charles added, still blinking spots from his eyes. “It’s an election year, so politicians will be eager to make a statement, even if it’s a second-hand one.” He glanced over to find Erik sporting a troubled expression. Tension clung to his frame like a fitted suit and Charles frowned. “Erik?”

            He snapped to attention. “Charles?”

            Aware of Sinister watching them closely he smiled easily and stepped into the library. “We should prepare; first lunch is about to end and we’ll be getting busy - oh.” He’d forgotten he’d promised Hank one last trial. The young doctor was sure he’d done it this time and Charles _had_ agreed – as he didn’t have patients for today – to sit through this one last test. “I’m afraid I’ll have to catch up with you later. Sean’s up top, so no funny business,” he added teasingly, swinging out of the door and securing it behind him.

            He broke into a jog and made it to Hank’s lab only a few minutes late. The scene that greeted him was becoming s typical one; Hank brandishing a syringe and a cotton ball dabbed with alcohol, looking far too excited for Charles’ taste. Slumping onto the cot, he rolled up his sleeves, expression sour. At least this would be the last one if Hank’s word was anything to go by (Charles had his doubts).

            “This is it,” he promised. “It’s going to hit pretty hard, if my calculations are correct. I’m administering an insufficient dose to achieve the full effects, but you should feel an adequate amount, at least enough to prove it’s efficacy.”

            The needle sunk in, another pump syringe that made Charles squirm. “What outcomes are we trying for?” he asked tightly, sighing with relief when Hank finally drew away.

            “At this amount you should feel a definite drop in your ability,” Hank informed him brightly; pushing his glasses back up his nose. “A lethargy that’s going to spread from your body across your mind. The rest you’ll have to tell me yourself. But I’m quite sure I isolated the chemical that can target and navigate the excess gyrencephalization telepath’s should have in the temporal lobe.”

            He looked fondly down at the crown of Hank’s head, snorting with amusement as the man continued to prattle on about the mind and using even more extravagant polysyllabic words to describe the varying states of wrinkles in each lobe of the brain. Distantly aware that Hank was checking his vital signs, Charles didn’t realize he’d keeled over until it was Hank looking down at him. Instead of the worry he’d expected Hank looked ecstatic.

            “Charles? Charles?”

            “Mmm,” he replied, mind strangely fuzzy.

            “Can you hear me, Charles?” asked Hank urgently, “What I’m thinking at you?”

            Gripping the crisp white lapels of Hank’s lab coat, Charles raised his eyebrows, though his eyelids fought to close. “By George, I think you’ve got it,” he slurred, smiling drunkenly up at his friend. “Can’t hear a thing.” He tried to reach out mentally, but it was with a phantom limb - one that weighed fifty pounds. Lying back, he let it go. Too tired. “Congratulations, Hank. I am now quite prepared to follow in the footsteps of Rip Van Winkle.” Humming contently into the starchy cotton pillow, he peered beadily up at the doctor, “I just learned who that was. Not quite caught up on my Yank folklore.”

            “And as a bonus,” Hank joked, “It enhances your Britishness.”

            “Jolly good,” he proclaimed lazily. “Cheers.”

 

...

 

            The bloodied tips of his fingers ached, but that agony was secondary to the almost blinding rage beating beneath his brow. His voice, raw and hoarse from his screaming, still slithered along the walls like night crawlers, the same name over and over again.

            “Xavier... Xavier...”

            He stood abruptly, falling completely still and silent. Distantly he could feel it as hundreds of inmates moved. Over time in the dark he’d learned to sense the hour. In the stillness he’d learned to stretch, to feel. Up until now the feelers he flung out haphazardly like poorly cast fishing lines had been ineffective. But before he’d been searching, trying to find only Xavier. He’d lost sight of the forest for the trees, so to speak. Now the minds he’d brushed aside before pressed in on all sides and Mojo welcomed them.

            Between first and second lunch there was a ten-minute window when nearly the entire inmate population was in transition. Mojo waited while the ticking seconds slid by.

            There was something to be said for rage. Like a dull knife, when sharpened it could cut through flesh as easily as butter. Mojo had known no other emotion for so long, and all he’d had time to do lately was sharpen his knife. At the moment he cut through those minds he felt, his powers refined now that he’d had time to focus without the distractions of other inmates or the routine of movement around the prison. He’d made plans.

            All it took to start such a violent fire was a lit match. Mojo closed his eyes and struck it.

 

...

 

            For a moment time stood perfectly still. As Charles happily sailed down the hallway high as a kite, as Erik and Sinister shelved books, as Sean waved down at Oliver, as Hank prepared more doses, and as Captain Moira was on the phone with some unpleasant reporters, a storm was breaking.

            It was his skin that saved him. The fist that flew into the back of his head was made of solid stone, but Darwin’s flesh had morphed into something that much stronger and all he suffered was to be pitched forward into a very confused Alex. As the blond guard caught him, Darwin turned around to see a mass of inmates tearing at each other like dogs. Blood sprayed across their faces as one inmate sprouted spikes, the red tips gleaming under the artificial lights. That triggered a chain reaction and suddenly inmates had grown in size, developed horns, fangs, wings...

  1.             “Shit,” he hissed, pulling out his baton as another inmate lunged at him. “Alex!”         



            “On it,” the other guard growled, rolling across the floor to slam his hand into the wall panel, breaking the glass. He pulled the fire alarm, yelling upwards as the intercom automatically switched to all channels, “Code Black, Code Black!”

 

...

 

            Sean’s eyes flew wide as Alex’s crackling voice came over the intercom and he immediately flexed his throat to unleash a high-pitched call across the grounds. Below the groundskeepers immediately burst into a fit of motion, securing doors outside where inmates could try to access potential weapons, and barricading the exits. Sean knew that at this point the entire prison would go through a series of lock-downs to isolate the fighting before guns and powers came into play. He just hoped he got there in time to use his voice before any of the guards got seriously injured. Flashing through his memory, he clenched his teeth when he realized that Darwin and Alex were on lunch transport today.

            Flying down the stairs two at a time, Sean went careening into the hall, sprinting as the alarms lining the walls began to shriek and flash. Gen pop was closer, so Sean went there first, tearing through doors still accessible, shouting at any human guards he saw on the way to retreat into the barracks and lock themselves in.

            This was a fight for mutants.

...

 

            Floors below the crow’s nest Alex was loosing controlled bursts of power, singeing the jumpsuits of prisoners grappling. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, stinging as it mixed with sweat. Darwin had long since dove into the fray, pulling inmates apart, bellowing at them. Juggernaut had taken up mediation duty as well, tossing various mutants away from each other like toys. The air crackled with electricity, fire, water, even the ground beneath their feet was shaking as the inmates used the abilities that had landed them in prison in the first place, now to harm their peers. And that’s what confused Alex; the guards weren’t even the targets. There was no order like there was at any regular riot. Usually large-scale fights happened between distinct groups, usually racial or even ability-based. What’s more, on average they lasted seconds; a flash of action and then they dispersed, usually leaving a specific victim in their wake. But there hadn’t had anything near this scale for years.

            “Where the fuck is the back-up!” Darwin roared from the middle of the room, his entire body covered in a metallic material. They’d been dealing with this for almost ten minutes; more time than most riots ever lasted. And no one was coming. At the very least Sean usually arrived to deafen the inmates into compliance before the rest of the guard showed for clean up, but he was nowhere to be found.

            Alex sent another blast into a group of mutants, aiming for the plastic lunch trays one of them had melted into shanks. The man wielding the weapons screamed furiously, turning glowing white eyes onto the blond guard. Thin lips drew back over dripping white teeth long as knives and Alex gulped. Incapacitating an inmate was one thing, but Alex would do everything in his power not to take a life. But being surrounded by an all-out prison war didn’t help matters when his control in enclosed areas was shoddy to say the least. His ability was never actually meant to be used and now when it was down to the wire Alex didn’t know how much bloodshed he could possibly avoid when the inmates were ripping into one another with the obvious intent to kill.

            “Stand down,” Alex ordered the giant inmate, spine tingling as he tried to find the point of sight in white eyes. “I’m serious. Stand. Down.” He crept backwards, eyes darting to Darwin. His friend was currently wrestling an inmate with scales and a tail off of another covered in feathers. Even though he was a mutant himself, Alex hoped he’d be able to laugh about this later. But the blood smearing the floor and the way that tail was wrapped around Darwin throat, and the way those feathers glistened with an ominous metallic sheen was no laughing matter. He looked back at his current problem, now looming several feet over his head. Along with the milky eyes and the terrifying jaws, the mutant was flexing bloody claws. They darted forward and Alex yelled and released a bolt of solid plasma square into the chest of the inmate, launching him twenty feet back like a bullet into the mass of bodies. They scattered like bowling pins, Darwin recovering quickly to run to his side.

            “Nice,” he panted, patting Alex on the back. “I got a look from the center of the room, up into the observation deck.” He licked his lips, still trying to catch his breath. “This thing has spread. There’s only one of us left up there.”

            Alex said very clearly, “Shit.”

            He didn’t get another word in as the mutant he’d blasted tackled him into the wall.

 

...

 

            Erik looked over at Sinister while the distant scream of alarms flooded the air. They jogged over to the door, stopped short as usual by their bonds, but Sinister didn’t seem worried. He glanced at Erik and said calmly, “I’m going to take a look. Stay quiet.”

            Sinister caught the first mind he could, wincing at the scrambled state; like static on a radio. Focusing on the visual signal, Sinister peered out of the inmate’s eyes and he felt Lehnsherr’s tension as he hissed low between his teeth.

            “They’re rioting,” he muttered. “The damn fools are rioting.”

            “Where, where is it happening?” demanded Erik, the metal warming around his wrists. Sinister’s red eyes glazed over slightly.

            “The mess hall, but...” he paused, blinking. He looked at Lehnsherr, face unreadable. “But there’s something else moving through the halls. I feel it; it’s catching on and the violence is spreading quickly. What are those damn fools thinking?”

            Swallowing down a suddenly dry throat, Erik wound his fingers around the chain that bound him. “What...” he caught himself, tone dark, “ _Who_ is it, Sinister?” The answering look was all he needed; they both knew exactly who it was. “You’re telling me that monster is on the loose. You heard what the guard told Charles last week. He’s _looking_ for him!”

            “Then I suggest, Lehnsherr, you get us out of here,” he recommended seriously. “I don’t sense our dear doctor anywhere nearby.”

            “Charles,” he breathed, the chains snapping from their wrists and clattering to the floor. Slamming his hand into the solid metal of the library’s only door, Erik gutted the steel like a thin fish, tearing at the frame with effortless force. “Charles,” he growled, voice cracking with worry as Sinister and he ran down the hall amidst the screams of the alarms.

 

...

 

            He was hunting.

            The scent of blood was high in the air; sharpened by the rage he pressed like spears into minds close enough to touch. His power had never been so powerful, nor so out of his control. Somewhere in the part of his mind that still made a feeble attempt at understanding rationality Mojo knew this wasn’t going to last. But he didn’t need it to last. He needed Xavier.

            Raising his nose to the air like a bloodhound Mojo inhaled deeply. His mouth curled in an ugly smirk. He stepped into a long white hall, eyes sparking when he saw a lone figure standing at the very end. Thin hands were tugging futilely on a locked door and Mojo realized that Xavier’s mental signal was... Normal. He nearly felt like a human. No. Not correct. Mojo sniffed again, catching that distinct scent he’d been pining after in solitary. Delicious. Xavier would never feel like a human. He felt the same as he did the first time Mojo had seen him.

            Creeping along the hall, Mojo’s breath staggered in excitement. Xavier was cupping his hands around his eyes to peer through the small window set in the metal door. The sleeves of his powder blue cotton shirt were rolled up his arms, tweed slacks hanging just right off slim hips. Mojo’s eyes crept down below the waistline, tongue winding around his mouth as he salivated.

            “Hello,” Charles yelled against the glass, unable to see anyone on the other side of the door. Alarms had been going off, but everything was still muted from the drug. Hank had promised it would wear off before happily sending him out to wander the halls. Charles rubbed at his eyes, knocking impatiently on the door. If alarms were going off there was a station he was supposed to take, people to check in with. “For goodness sake,” he grumbled, “I’m authorized! I have a badge... Open sesame?”

            He was panting, fingers twitching as he reached out towards the counselor. There was nothing between them now. For whatever reason Xavier’s senses had been dulled, and how could that not be more perfect?

            Something crawled along his spine; an awareness that awoke him to the idea that he wasn’t alone in the hallway. Straightening, Charles turned around. His heart stopped, and all he could do was stare into glittering yellow eyes as Mojo wrapped bloody fingers around his throat in a vice like grip.

            “Hello, _dear_ doctor.”


	10. Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will he make it in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye of weak stomachs do not tread here. Seriously. Gird your loins, kiddies. You’ve been warned.

            The stench of sweat, blood, and burning. On the other side of the door the human staff members not armed to the teeth and fighting down below were making frantic calls to the mainland. Logan tried not to think about the groundskeepers and if any of the inmates had gotten out. His only purpose in this moment was to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, and he’d be damned if anything got in the way of his duty. Though no one had made it up this far; the violence was still mainly contained in the mess hall and Gen Pop. Faint echoes of Sean’s cries could be heard, almost like sonar resonating off the currents of water.

            Good. He hoped the scrawny ginger made their ears bleed.

            When the sickening crack of bone against metal met his ears Logan roared, whipping his hands out on either side of him. The foot long claws of metal seared his flesh as they extended menacingly. His eyes burned. Facing him at the end of the hall were four inmates who’d broken through the door with disturbingly little trouble. Their vacant eyes were shallow pools of nameless anger and rage. He couldn’t smell a hint of fear on them. Tensing when they began to move forward, Logan readied himself, aware of the lives contained in the room behind him. He thought of Moira, the way she’d pursed her lips with barely constrained fury as she was shepherded back into the offices by the mutant staff members, by Logan. Their eyes had met and for a moment Logan pitied any inmate who tried to mess with the Captain.

            The four hadn’t revealed their abilities yet, prowling slowly down the short hallway. Logan stabbed his claws into the drywall, creating a barrier with his body.

            “I think you know the drill,” he sneered. “Don’t make me give the ‘you have to go through me’ speech.”

            “Someone’s eager to dance,” rumbled the biggest of the four. He flexed and acrid sweat began to seep from his pores, thickening as it bled. Wolverine’s lip curled, but he stood his ground. Thick, viscous globs of brownish sludge dripped noisily off the inmate, sticking to the floor in hardening mounds of organic glue. “Hope you know how to Fox Trot, Wolverine.”

            “Don’t mess him up too fast,” one of the others said, grinning evilly. “I need to pay this pig back. He took it upon himself to ‘correct’ me one too many times.”

            Logan narrowed his eyes. He faintly remembered all of them from various scuffles when he used to work the floor. They wanted revenge? So be it.

            The first one to speak launched forward, leaving thick trails of sweat behind him. He swung a meaty arm, connecting with the set of fierce metal claws that sunk deep into the slime. Grinning, he chuckled throatily as Wolverine twisted and ripped at him, unable to penetrate the rubbery slick that coated his body. The substance clung to the guard, coating his arm in hardening swathes of brown slop.            




            “That’s interesting,” Logan growled. “What else do you scum have in store?”

            Another in the group began to climb the walls, wide rubbery suckers on the palms of his hands and the balls of his feet. “Don’t mind me,” he simpered, crawling directly over Wolverine’s head. “I’ll just be paying my respects to the humans.”

            The third mutant had tiny blue currents of electricity flowing all over his body, mapping out the spidery paths of his veins. With a long pinky nail he sliced his palms and like blood, the electricity flowed red, crackling menacingly. Behind them, the last mutant in their group started to stretch and warp his body, looking for all the world like some malformed flying squirrel, filling the hallway like a fleshy wall. Effectively he’d barred the exit.

            Exhaling slowly, Logan said, “Fuck.”

 

...

 

            The counselor had turned away from him, blatantly denying he was even there. Mojo rumbled with mirth, “Not a nightmare, sweet little thing.” Xavier pounded on the door with a white-knuckled fist and Mojo practically lavished in the heady scent of fear and confusion rolling off the smaller mutant. “You smell divine, dear doctor,” he purred, fingers coiling into soft brown hair. Xavier stiffened, nose pressed against the glass of the window. In the faint reflection Mojo could see brilliant blue eyes narrow and shift up until they were staring directly at him. Now the fear ignited in a splash of yellow paint across his countenance and Xavier dropped from under his hand to slam himself against the opposite wall.

            His skin so pale he almost blended into the paint, Mojo was a detached set of gleaming golden eyes. Old gold; dirty with age and decay. Charles shook his head; mind clamoring to ground itself as if thought after thought was falling down a flight of stairs. The sedatives racing through his bloodstream deadened the fear at the forefront, distant screams instead of right against his ears. But Charles was no less afraid. He was just as afraid in the dark, unable to give a distinct shape as the lines around the other mutant blurred. Claw-like nails brushed his throat and Charles jerked back, breathing heavily through his nose as his head cracked against the plaster. An ache split his skull while he tried to access his ability, and succeeded as much as holding air.

            “I wonder where you are now, Xavier,” he breathed heatedly, hauling the psychiatrist forward. Dull nails scratched at his hold, blue eyes too bright. “Where’s your voice, little one?”

            He couldn’t find it. Words tumbled away, his tongue a swollen knot inside his mouth. Fear worked as well as lockjaw, and somewhere inside Charles he recognized this very special brand of fright he’d felt only once before. Another instance when unwanted hands held him, another time when dark intent bled from evil eyes to lie across his body in a burning trail of sinful promise. All he managed was to whimper in disbelief at the helplessness he’d sworn off ever since his training sessions with Emma. He could crush Mojo; he had done as much the last time they danced this particular dance. But now he was a brittle eggshell about to be rubbed to dust between the giant’s fingers.

            A thin whisper curled up to reach his ears. Mojo smiled. “What was that, dear Xavier?”

            “Don’t... do this,” he panted, flinching as the dirty fingers tightened over his throat. He swung an off-aim punch at Mojo’s forearm, kicking out viciously to clip the albino’s shin. Both blows landed as ineffective as caresses. Mojo only grinned down at him, yellow teeth shiny in the bleaching artificial lights. That slow, unnerving rumble of his spiteful laugh coiled up to spill down over Charles. The shame and sobering anger rallied him, and Charles fought to focus. “Mojo-”

            “There it is,” he growled. “My name, Xavier. Say it again.” He squeezed, frowning at the flash of defiance awakened in the counselor’s gaze. “Precious thing; don’t make me rip it out when it is so easily given.” Xavier’s pulse raced against the pressure of his fingers, his skin smooth and hot. The pretty flush over his cheeks only darkened that deliciously sinful set of crimson lips. Mojo bared his teeth, using his other hand to tangle in soft brown hair before he forced the counselor down to his knees.

            Charles twisted and fought with a desperate violence, crying out when strands of hair were torn from his scalp. Mojo descended after him, filthy dreadlocks swinging ominously around him in imitation of a cage. The power, raw and abundant, behind Mojo’s grip buckled his knees and Charles crumbled beneath the monstrous hands. He screamed hoarsely when the mutant kicked his legs open, shoving between them. Contracting his body, he attempted to kick at Mojo’s face. The hand on his throat disappeared for an instant before it came back down to crack painfully against the side of his face, snapping his head to the side. His lip stung, blood trickling sickeningly sweet into his mouth. Mojo hauled his head up by his hair alone and lapped at the crimson trail with a long slimy tongue.

            The hardening in his pants ached with need. Mojo rutted heavily against Xavier, snarling at the friction, only increased by the mutant’s struggling. Red lips, now bright with blood, framed pinkish teeth. Mojo wanted a taste. Grabbing one swinging arm, Mojo twisted it effortlessly to watch the counselor utter a cut-off scream, biting his lips as bones popped sickeningly. Still with the grip on Xavier’s hair, Mojo forced the white throat to arch, now blooming with beautifully rendered bruises. Lowering himself along the line of Xavier’s body, ignoring the fingers tearing at his hair, Mojo bit into Xavier’s mouth, smearing it with red. Twisting Xavier’s mangled arm further when the doctor instinctively bit, Mojo ravished his mouth. He moaned shamelessly, rutting against Xavier and shoving slender legs impossibly wide around his girth. He stuck his tongue to the back of the counselor’s throat, cutting of his air, raping his mouth with vicious intent. Grinding his aching cock down, he almost purred around the garbled scream that tore out of Xavier, tears overflowing from his closed eyes in a beautiful stream.

            His mind was a delirious mess of panic and nausea. The cutting pain in his arm was a firebrand across his consciousness, kindled by the sheer devastation of the circumstances. A hysterical jumble of thoughts tangled up in inside his mind and he uttered another ragged scream when Mojo pushed violently into his mind. That level of violation was new. Spasming as the other mutant goaded the awful memories playing around his subconscious into painfully detailed images, Charles could only sob brokenly as he was forced to watch himself, somehow manipulated to see it from Mojo’s perspective, splayed out on the floor at the Academy. Not again not again not again not again not again not again _pleasepleasepleasenotagain_.

            Withdrawing from the trembling body, Mojo stared down at the counselor. Blood painted his lower face, arm frozen at an unnatural angle. Crystal blue eyes were glazed over as he relived the horror that had tainted him, and Mojo watched hungrily. He nudged the memories, enhanced them. He even added to them, endlessly aroused by the choked cries coming from the counselor. Reaching down, he undid the front of the jumpsuit, freeing his leaking cock. It hung heavy and swollen, tip resting against Xavier’s lower belly. Precum soiled the neat blue cotton of his shirt and Mojo grinned. He watched distractedly as Xavier was beaten down in his mind’s eye, stripped and laid bare. Sliding thick fingers into the gaps between the wooden buttons on Xavier’s shirt, Mojo ripped it cleanly open and let his eyes drink in the sight of so much pale skin.

            “Beautiful little thing you are, Xavier,” he murmured, and finally released the mutant from his mental torture. In the aftermath Xavier lay there shivering and crying, trying to curl up into himself but blocked by Mojo still seated between his legs. “Shh, don’t cry. We’ve just begun to play.”

 

...

 

            There was something gnawing at his stomach, twisted and ill. Erik shoved down the yawning ache of worry that sought to overwhelm him. Sinister ran beside him in grim silence. Around them the flashing alarms continued their song. Each new door they came to Sinister swept for anyone nearby – more often than not there was no one – and Erik would cleanly disable the lock. After long minutes on end of solitude Sinister ordered Erik to stop.

            “It’s focused in Gen Pop, and the mess hall,” he said. Narrowing burning red eyes, Sinister cocked his head. “And Administration.”

            Unable to withhold it, Erik blurted, “Charles. What about Charles?”

            “I can’t find him,” the mutant sighed, tone defeated. “His mind is dimmed somehow. It’s highly unusual. Typically I can at the very least _feel_ him, if anything.”

            Erik slammed his fist into the wall. Behind him Sinister winced as the lights above their heads shattered, raining down around them in a downpour of sparks. “Something’s wrong.”

            “There _is_ a riot,” he pointed out delicately. But he couldn’t ignore the note of iron resolve in Lehnsherr’s tone. He felt it too, something oil slick and heavy hanging in the air. Pursing his lips, Sinister stepped carefully forward to lay his hand on the other inmate’s shoulder. “Erik,” he said seriously. “ _Find him_. I know you can. What sort of star-crossed lovers couldn’t find each other in such compellingly drastic odds?”

            Squaring his jaw, Erik nodded sharply. “Cover me,” he ordered. The other mutant made an affirmative sound and stepped away. Sliding close against the wall, Erik pressed his body to the cold surface. Beneath the beige wall he felt the pulse and quake of metal. Closing his eyes, he threw himself into the web of pipes, sliding along steel beams, clattering over iron balustrades. The thrum of activity echoed throughout the skeleton of Juniper, groaning like an old beast under duress. But Erik threw it all away, listening only for that matchless signal, the tiny vibration that was uniquely Charles. One he would recognize from the pressure of his soft hand on a railing, the clap of his foot on a stair, the hush of springs when he turned in his sleep at night. Charles.

            He pushed until sweat beaded over his brow. The storm of movement in the jail rattled his senses, warping the metal’s song he knew so well. A bent tuning fork, knocked off-key by unnatural tension crackling through the air. But he shook it off, redoubling his efforts to seek Charles out. It had never taken him this long before. He growled, cutting off the sound when he felt Sinister’s hand thread between the fabric of his jumpsuit and the line of his hair.

            “I mean no insult,” the mutant murmured. “But my eyes are sharper than yours, Lehnsherr. Wing me along your metal pathways.” His fingers were cool and dry. “Show me,” Sinister whispered, and Lehnsherr let him in to see.

 

...

 

            Sean and Juggernaut ran along the upper gangway, scanning the mass of bodies below. Blood was everywhere, and those still fighting slipped in the mess as they continued to struggle. Several inmates had scaled the walls by various means, clinging to the heavy pipes webbing the ceiling, or seeking sanctuary on the windowsills. Sluggish and exhausted, the inmates roared and swung lead-weight limbs at each other, but Sean’s first concern was his peers. Sharp eyes skipping over a myriad of faces, Sean finally spotted the two of them. Darwin - tirelessly selfless - still worked to split the inmates up. Alex was moving through the mutants, barking at those who tried to move in too close to the fallen. His face was bloodied, but he looked stable. Shoving open one of the viewing panels, Sean yelled down, “Hey!”

            Alex looked up at him and waved. Then he plugged his ears.

            Juggernaut was impressed when the tiny guard let loose with a frightening sound. He slapped his hands over his ears, though the noise wasn’t directed at him. Peering down into the mess hall he watched inmate after inmate crumble to the floor clutching their head. Then the sound changed into a strange pulsing wave with an underlying tone that reverberated through the drums of his ears. What was left in its wake, when the guard had fallen silent, was a hollow ringing. After shaking his head Juggernaut didn’t hear it anymore, but by the looks of it down below the inmates were still suffering. They stumbled back from each other looking dazed.

            Darwin met Alex’s eyes across the room. For some unknown reason, just as mysterious as the start of this whole fiasco, the inmates had slowed down. Sean’s ability wouldn’t have been effective even five minutes ago, but the thick cloud of rage had dissipated, leaving a confused exhaustion behind. By now the human guards could return with their assault rifles and quash the riot completely.

            The radio on the wall crackled with life and Alex jogged over to it, keying into the channel. Moira’s voice, faint and tinny, came through on a weak signal.

            “Lo... four inm... top leve... _now_...”

            “Sean,” Alex shouted up, “We’ll clean up here. Get to the offices now!”

            Motioning to Juggernaut, Sean didn’t waste time in sprinting through the port door. They made short work of the halls, coming to a stop right outside the door to the administrational offices. Juggernaut drew back his fist when they heard the crashes and gunshots, glancing first at Sean before he smashed straight through the reinforced metal, sending it flying. They poured in after it and Juggernaut grabbed the first mutant he saw and held him above his head like a sack of flour. The mutant was spitting electricity, but the sparks seemed to die when Juggernaut neatly clocked him on the side of the head and dropped him to move on. Sean followed, peeking over the giant mutant’s shoulder to see Logan covered in a thick layer of brown sludge. Two human guards had come out of the safe room with guns in hand, firing away. One inmate already lay on the ground, clutching a bloody leg. Another was wrapped like a crepe around a guard. Sean sent a bolt of sonar straight at his head, smirking when the inmate flopped back onto the floor, wrinkling like a dropped bed sheet.

            Juggernaut saw Wolverine, his movements sluggish, and he saw the human guards firing. Their bullets were sinking into the sap-like cover of a huge mutant. The odor coming off him was bad enough to curl Juggernaut’s nose hairs. Scowling, he stomped over to the other inmate, ignoring the thick coating of slime that was flung at him. Reaching through the cloud of stench, he grabbed the inmate by the scruff of the neck and socked him in the gut soundly. The blow made a wet squelching sound and released an even more potent cloud of rancid body odor. Doubling over, the inmate hacked, beady eyes squinting with tears as he tried to catch his breath.

            In a few minutes the Captain was out of the room and barking orders. Sean and Juggernaut were chipping away at the hardened shell of filth over Wolverine’s entire body. The mutants had been carted down to the mess hall, where the majority of the staff was trying to sort out the wounded. Hank was darting around with sedative patches, slapping them on any patch of skin he could reach. Many of the inmates were already sitting on the floor, still trying to get the ringing out of their ears.

            Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. “What the _hell_ just happened?”

            Logan shrugged, peeling off his uniform until he was left in nothing but his undershirt and boxers. The Captain gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

            “It was everywhere, whatever it was,” Sean muttered. “All of a sudden. Bam!”

            “Have they finished roll call?” the Captain muttered, lip quirking as Juggernaut helpfully picked at a spot of slime left over in Logan’s hair.

            “Everyone’s radioed in except for... Charles,” Sean said, frowning. “I think he was visiting Hank for the sedative test right before it happened.”

            Her eyes widened. “You mean he was under sedation when the riot broke out?”

            All of a sudden Darwin came springing into the room, panting. “Mojo,” he gasped, “He’s gone, and one of the guards is down.”

            “We need to find Charles. _Now_ ,” Moira snapped, “Before Mojo does.”

 

...

 

            It was with desperation that Charles was pushing at the broad chest, fingers scrambling to inflict pain by clawing, ripping at the heavy stifling dreadlocks hanging down like elongated corpses. Mojo’s mouth was on his neck and he felt the sharp sting of teeth and gasped wetly. Fire exploded across the backs of his lids when the bigger mutant punched his broken arm, coming away with bloody knuckles. The pain stunned him into complacence; warm buzz of overloading agony shifting into disturbing numbness as his brain shut down pain receptors in order to cope. Adrenaline pumped through him in place of the sting, his heart thudding noisily against the confines of his ribcage.

            Charles panted loudly, breath ringing in his ears. He struggled to focus, biting down on his lip when Mojo roughly ripped down his pants, the wool chafing against his thighs. The black veil of panic threatened to blind him but Charles viciously shook his head, using his good arm to grab a dreadlock and yank with all the might he had left. Mojo’s soulless eyes rose up to gouge into his face, bemused expression crossing into irritation. Knitting his brow, Charles wrapped the hair around his hand and yelled with the effort to pull, twisting his hips and bringing a sharp knee straight up under Mojo’s chin.

            His jaw ached with the impact, but Mojo didn’t waste time. He grabbed Xavier’s hips and threw him over onto his stomach, trapping his broken arm under his chest. The bone broke the skin, ribbons of blood striping the light gray floors. Xavier screamed, the whites of his eyes clearly visible. But Mojo didn’t want him unconscious. Grunting, he lifted the counselor by his hair and shook the arm free, boneless and bloody.

            Mojo’s eyes snapped up and he flinched away just as a huge support beam went careening into the wall inches from his head. He heard an animalistic roar behind him, but didn’t bother to turn.

            “ _Erik_ , you’ll kill Xavier! _Stop_ ,” Sinister shouted angrily, stretching his powers to        shove Erik into the wall. The mutant didn’t even seem to hear him, his wide eyes fixed in unspeakable rage on the two mutants at the end of the hall. “Think of Charles, you fool!”

            His vision was red. He’d rip down the walls; collapse the place. All he saw was blood and the deathly pallor of Charles’ face. Lifting his hand, he ripped down another beam, drywall and paint chips falling over them like snow. The beam hovered dangerously in the air, but Mojo still hadn’t turned. “Get the _fuck_ away from him,” he growled, the raw hatred in his voice demonic. “Get the fuck. Off. Him.”

            Teeth flashing in a tight grimace, Sinister held up his hands, subtly brushing over Erik’s mind. He could stop him if he had to. Or at the very least stall him. The lovesick bastard would get them all killed at this rate. He cast his eyes back towards Mojo, who’d shifted out from under the projectile Erik had opened with. The psychiatrist was on his stomach, one arm obviously broken. His shirt was shoved up his spine, pants barely hanging off his hips. The smell of sweat and sex hung in the air. Mojo was between the counselor’s legs, his swollen erection already hanging predatorily down towards the small man.

            “They raped him, you know,” Mojo said flatly. He pulled Charles flush against his chest by his hair, ignoring the weak hand that lashed out at him. “Those dirty boys at the Academy.” Winding his tongue around Charles’s pale white throat, yellow eyes bored into Erik as he said darkly, “All at once, didn’t they sweet counselor? All those dirty things in your tight little hole.” His hand moved out of Erik’s sight as Charles gave a painful whimper, weakly struggling away from the mutant.

            “I’ll kill you,” Erik promised, voice devoid of emotion. His eyes had turned slate-grey.

            “Then why don’t I take him with me?” Mojo asked, directing Xavier’s face towards the other mutants, “If I am to die, why not take this sweet whore with me. To keep me company on the path to Hell.”

            Each tear scorching the side of Charles’ face was like a physical blow. Erik felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of the psychiatrist. His face was bloody, bone visible through a messy break in his arm. A dry sob pulled at his throat and Erik held his hand against the wall for support, the floating piece of metal wavering in the air. “You won’t have him-”

            “They held him down on a dirty floor, but then that’s fitting now isn’t it?” Mojo continued, practically petting the trembling counselor. He placed chaste kisses along his neck, moving his fingers between the firm globes of his ass to stroke at his entrance. Xavier bit out a ragged sob, writhing in his grasp. “They got you right here, didn’t they, Xavier? Pushed in right here.”

            “Stop, stop,” he panted, bleary eyes directed at the floor.

            Erik yelled, “Charles!” He paced the width of the hall like an animal, helplessly playing witness to Charles’ violation. Mojo let Charles fall onto his good arm, now on his knees. Charles had gone somewhere Erik couldn’t reach, withdrawing into himself. When the telepath looked over at him, not recognizing him, his eyes were like twin eclipses reflected in the cool blue of the sea. His pupils were blown wide with shock, layered by pain and whatever was in him that was dulling his abilities. It was an ugly, awful sight.

            “A keepsake,” Mojo murmured, “A souvenir.” He chanted the words into the shell of Xavier’s ear, careful to keep a tight hold around his throat. It wouldn’t take much to snap the counselor’s neck. And the other two inmates knew that. The anguish crippling Lehnsherr’s expression was nearly endearing, and Mojo couldn’t help but chortle. “Look at that, sweet counselor. Your knight has arrived too late to preserve your maidenhead.” Xavier’s eyes, unseeing and fever-bright, ghosted over to Lehnsherr. Pushing a blood-slick finger into the searing hot body, he smirked at the high-pitched whimper Xavier made. “He’s going to watch you fall.”

            Sinister was prodding at Mojo’s mind, but ultimately withdrew. It was a pit of vipers. Glancing over at Lehnsherr, he winced at the iron strength of his jaw. The mutant was completely silent. Metal had begun to bleed from the walls, molten and venomous. It drained in deadly streams over the grooves and bumps of the wall, melting the paint, stripping the cement. Sinister moved away from them, careful to keep away from the liquefied metal. “Lehnsherr,” he whispered.

            Erik’s voice was calm when he spoke, and Mojo met his eyes lazily as he continued to manhandle Charles. “Can you hear me, Charles?”

            Sneering at the mutant, Mojo slammed Xavier’s face into the ground, scissoring his fingers. Xavier’s sweaty palm slipped against the linoleum, his broken arm already turning puce with clotted blood and bruising. His voice was a series of skittering whispers. “I’m afraid he can’t, Lehnsherr,” Mojo informed the mutant flippantly, grunting with the effort to twist his fingers ever deeper. Xavier groaned into the floor.

            “You know, Mojo,” Sinister said in a clipped, worried tone. “Whatever happens, you’re going to suffer a great deal. I’d think your concern for your own hide would lend you some sense. Stop now and perhaps Lehnsherr won’t rip you to pieces.”

            “The doctor and I will be gone before that happens,” he sighed, tearing his fingers free from Xavier’s body. “At this angle I’d break his neck with dead weight if you killed me.” He flexed the fingers pressing the back of Xavier’s neck.

            Sinister noticed Erik’s eyes had finally left Xavier to move up to the ceiling. Flicking his gaze back to Mojo, Sinister spoke low and urgent, “This is pathetic, you know. You’re selling yourself out for a piece of flesh. The poor boy isn’t worth it.” Swallowing down a dry throat as Mojo lined himself up to thrust, Sinister’s voice cracked; “Why not liberate yourself? You have enough friends on the outside. Run.” Clenching his fists, he hissed, “We won’t touch you.”

            Charles came to life in a flurry of movement as the head of Mojo’s cock pressed him. He screamed hoarsely and scrambled to get away. Mojo easily caught him, hugging him loosely around the hips. But the counselor yelped and twisted to kick at his face, expression a mask of nauseous pain.

            And all of a sudden it was raining.

            Metal hail collapsed in a deadly sheet and with a blood-curdling howl Mojo was punctured with thousands of holes. The hand he’d had on the back of Charles’ neck was a bloody pulp, smashed to mush by tiny metal raindrops. A mist of crimson was released from Mojo’s body; his pasty white skin flushed a morbid pink. His features were gone, erased and sunken. And a sound, like marbles clacking against each other inside a cloth sack, rang out from inside of his body. Thick founts of blood and tissue squirted from the innumerable holes riddling his frame and Erik ran to scoop Charles up and away before he was soiled by the muck.

            Sinister bent double to dry heave, sinking to his knees. Evidence of the molten paths of liquid metal still marked the walls. As soon as he’d seen the opening, Lehnsherr had turned the lines of fluid into bullets and sent them flying directly at Mojo. It happened in less than a second. Wiping the side of his mouth with a shaking hand, Sinister barely had the wits about him to stumble back when the ceiling and walls warped and were ripped free. A deafening clang followed, and left in the settling dust was a metal sphere, neat and shining among the debris and exposed pipes. Lehnsherr and the counselor were inside, and Sinister was left with the bloodied pulp that represented what was once Mojo.

 

...

 

            He became aware of Charles screaming. His throat was so raw that it was almost just a whisper. Erik fought the urge to clutch him closer to his chest, and instead lay him on the ground. The instant he was loose Charles scrambled back, coming up against the curved wall of the sphere hard. Breathing heavily, tears still drying on his cheeks, Erik fell to his knees and stared miserably at the horror etched out on Charles’ beautiful face. “Charles,” he said. “Charles, it’s Erik. You’re safe. He’s dead. He’s gone.” When Charles only flinched away from his voice he fell silent, fists clenched angrily at his sides. A man of action was useless now, and Erik had never been anything else. Helpless, he closed his eyes and pulled up every memory of Charles’ smile, their laughter together, the near electric tension crackling between them in the library. He thought of Winnie the Pooh, he thought of the redheaded guard, the blonde guard, Darwin. Crawling carefully closer, he opened his eyes again and held the thoughts steady. Charles eyes were fixed on him and Erik smiled at him.

            Like the brush of leaves on the wind, Charles felt the individual threads of thought gently moving over him. Warmth. Protectiveness. Safety. A moth drawn hopelessly to a bright point of light Charles moved towards the source, his heart aching with tentative hope. The images he’d been plagued with were washed away, leaving him drained and scared. Blinking erratically, he reached out and gripped a hand. Upon contact the vividness of the positive thoughts grew tenfold and Charles gasped, eyes flying wide. He was surrounded by concern, care, fondness... Pigments of color began to collect and a familiar line of features swam into view. Charles gazed at Erik. He felt the comfort, could even faintly hear the words floating from the mutant’s mind.

            _Safe now. It’s gone. No more pain. Ever. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. Charles. Charles. My heart is your heart. Charles._

            Gulping, Charles husked, “Erik.”

            He sobbed with relief, openly crying when Charles reached forward to carefully map the trail of tears on his face.

            “My friend,” he murmured, still shaking. “Please don’t cry for me.”

            Covering his face with his free hand, Erik wept. He felt the warmth returning to Charles’ mind, wrapping him in a thin, but strong blanket of comfort. “No, no,” he protested, “Don’t you dare comfort me, songbird.” He was cautious as he touched the side of Charles’ face. “I’ll never leave you, Charles. No one will ever hurt you again. Never,” he vehemently promised, voice cracking with emotion as Charles moved forward and embraced him. The slender body was wracked with tremors, but Erik held him tight enough to chase them away. “Charles,” he whispered into soft hair. “I want it to be all right. I never want you to fear.”

            “Can you just-” Charles stuttered, voice a mere shadow of its former self, “Hold me, Erik? Just... hold me.”

            His heart broke. He cried silently into the crown of brown hair, tears sliding along the strands as he clutched Charles tightly, the smaller mutant gripping him back with an almost violent force. Moving his lips, he gently kissed the top of Charles head, stroking his hair. He’d never let Charles be harmed again. When the smaller mutant warmed the front of his jumpsuit with fresh tears, Erik swore on his life that he would never leave Charles again. When Juniper was nothing but a long-lost memory, Charles would be at his side.


	11. Fleeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the lines get blurred.

            Juggernaut led the small party of jail staff down the halls, feeling uneasy when at each door they found the frame warped, the door itself looking like the surface had been boiled. And the doorknobs were nothing but mangled globs of melted metal. Nothing was hot to the touch thankfully. All was eerily still as they continued their journey, every leg punctuated by the muffled boom of Juggernaut’s head or fist removing anything barring their way.

            Captain Moira was just behind Juggernaut with Logan and Darwin. Hank was on call with the inmates, but close by via walky-talky. Sean and Alex had been escorting inmates with minor or no injuries back to their cells as the jail slowly moved into lockdown. They just couldn’t spare the staff for this little expedition, though Moira had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach that they might need them at a moment’s notice.

            The state of the halls only deteriorated as the small party continued deeper into Juniper. Moira pulled out her gun and Logan extended his claws. Darwin raised his baton as they came to what was once a door, now nothing but a distorted misrepresentation of a door. Juggernaut looked over his shoulder at the small woman and drew back to punch through at the curt nod. He unleashed a devastating blow to the metal, leaving a sizeable dent. But the door itself held. Thinking about the counselor and the urgency of finding him, Juggernaut growled low in his throat and threw his entire body into the next punch, thick skin over his knuckles splitting. Blood now smeared the steel, but the frame had caved enough for another push. Bending at the waist, Juggernaut took a long step back before he launched forward like a battering ram and tore out the entire doorframe, ripping an entirely new entrance.

            Stumbling slightly after the momentum had built, Juggernaut came to a stop, blinking back the stars dancing around his head. The others filed in quickly and Moira burst, “Sinister!”

            The inmate sent them a bored expression, his eyes sunken and hollow. “Well, well,” he sighed noncommittally. His usually waxen appearance was marred by the suspicious flush of pink smeared over his face and clothes. Slumped against the wall, Sinister looked like he’d been sweating blood. But then so did the walls where great patches of metal had been torn free, pipes and beams jutting out like splintered bones.

            And in the middle of the hall, thrumming deep like the distant rumble of thunder was a perfect metal sphere. Smooth as glass and reflecting back at them all their horrified faces.

            Following his nose, Logan saved inspection of the sphere for later. He squinted at the plaster. His stomach curled. “Amore,” he muttered, the nickname quiet and deadly serious, “This is blood.” He could smell it, pungent, thick. His sharp eyes slid past the weary looking inmate that Darwin had begun to check over. Logan had to wretch as the limp skin-sack of slow draining offal that once was alive sat rotting quietly in the corner. “Christ.”

            Juggernaut turned away, looking green.

            Darwin staunchly ignored the palpable push of stench to his right. He helped Sinister gingerly to his feet, cuffing him leniently. The inmate looked so relieved that they were there. “Sinister,” Darwin said, “Where’s Charles?”

            “Hmm,” he started, the ghost of a smile lifting the side of his mouth, “I believe he’s in the land beyond, beyond.”

            Darwin motioned to the sphere, “You mean in _there_?”

            “Yes. In there. Certainly not out here to enjoy the lovely reek of...” he trailed off. “Would it be too much to beg to be returned to my cell? I don’t suppose I can stomach being in this room for another moment.”

            “Mister Sinister,” Moira snapped, gun now aimed at the sphere. “What the hell is this thing—and what _was_ that?”

            Eyes darting over his shoulder for the barest of seconds, Sinister delivered a sickly smile. “That’s Mojo. A marked improvement, if I’m to be honest. And that colossus marble,” he murmured, grunting slightly as Darwin helped him to his feet, “Is a rather unique declaration of love.”

            Obviously unhappy with that answer, the Captain turned skeptical eyes back to the sphere. “Darwin, radio Hank. Tell him it’s a code 40.” Her voice was steady as she said, “Logan, Juggernaut. Open it up.” Then she raised her gun and took aim.

            It ended up cracking like an egg underneath Juggernaut’s skull once he’d come stampeding down the hall. Logan launched forward, claws out. Not a second later he was flung out of the sphere by some unknown force and Charles’ unmistakable voice sounded, “No, Erik!”

            All that Moira needed to see was Charles on the ground and Erik standing over him, rage in his eyes. Training her gun to damage but not kill, the Captain fired three shots, immediately slamming to the ground and Lehnsherr deflected them with his bare hands. They ricocheted off the walls, bounding ineffectively off Darwin’s chest. Rolling up onto her side, Moira tried again, varying the aim of her shots to throw off his concentration as Darwin started walking slowly towards the inmate, hand up. Charles was still yelling, scrambling back from the shooting and looking terrified not for himself but for Lehnsherr.

            She ran out of bullets by the time Hank arrived. His shoes were off, a rare exposure of his physical mutation. Darwin was currently being pummeled by metal and Charles had thrown himself onto the metal-bender, pleading with him to stop. Springing through the opening in the sphere, clinging to the walls with his huge beastly feet, Hank sunk a syringe directly into the side of Erik’s neck. Panic drained from his face as a razor-sharp piece of metal screeched to a halt mere centimeters from lens of his glasses as Lehnsherr collapsed into Charles’ arms.

 

…

 

Charles was exhausted, but he refused to move from Erik’s side. Hank and the medical staff moved around him silently, every now and then subjecting him to a blood pressure test or eye exam. No concussion, blood pressure only slightly high, pulse stable. Chronic trembling in his hands, even as he griped Erik’s forearm with his one good hand, practically the only part of the mutant left bare.

                  Erik was strapped to the cot with belts made from carbon fiber, something Charles was only vaguely familiar with. It’s strong, that’s all he knows. Impossibly strong. Much stronger than the fiberglass enclosing his hands and covering his eyes, much stronger than any metal Erik would hope to use to free himself. That is if he ever regained consciousness. The way he lay there, mental signal all but dead to Charles’ careful prodding, didn’t point to such a hopeful end and Charles had to close his eyes to fight the wave of nausea. At first he’d tried to reason with the Captain, with the others, babbling like a maniac as Hank reset his arm and bound it tightly before setting a cast. Erik _protected_ him, Erik _saved_ him. Under all the skeptical glares directed at him, Darwin’s cut the deepest. Regardless of the moral implications, or the oily guilt that slid underneath the worry, Charles _couldn’t_ leave Erik. Not like this. Not bound and gagged like some monster.

            What felt like hours later Logan slouched into the medical room, eyes doing a cursory sweep of the other highly drugged inmates occupying various cots. When they finally came to rest on Charles he was met with a pair of heart-stopping baby blues, red-rimmed and _tired_. Sliding down to feel the counselor’s forehead, he murmured, “Back to reality tomorrow, doc. You have patients waiting.” At those words the other man looked like he was about to protest before the weary defiant light in his eyes dimmed with resignation.

            “Just a few more minutes,” he asked, entirely too pale.

            Smiling tightly, Logan nodded once and left the room to wait outside.

            Leaning down, Charles brushed his lips along Erik’s arm. _Erik_ , he called, brows knit as he waded through the fuzzy, flashing, obscure images wracking the mutant’s mind. _Erik_.

            …. _arles_

He sat bolt upright, fingers tightening on the inmate’s arm. “Erik,” he hissed, staring at the blank slate of fiberglass across the ghost-green eyes.

            _Charles._

            It was painfully faint, and blurry like traffic lights through a wet windshield. Charles let the tendrils unfurl from his mind and float through Erik’s, less like search beams and more like spider webs. Words were caught, clearer and clearer.

            … _all right? You’re all right? Charles, answer…_

“I’m fine,” he whispered. “Are you… are you in pain, my friend?”

            _If you’re all right, Charles,_ Erik’s voice was like a river running between them, _Then nothing can hurt me._

Laughing even as tears collected in his eyes, Charles rested his head on the inmate’s chest, hating the hard straps tying him down, the cruel carbon fiber gag cutting out his voice. “That’s called diverting, Erik.” He flinched as Logan tapped his knuckles on the frame of the door, mouth set in a hard line. His brown eyes were soft though, with some unnamed understanding. Turning back to Erik, Charles touched the strip of visible skin on his face. “Promise me you’ll just rest now.”

            _I won’t give them a reason to put me down, songbird._

            He could hear the wry smile behind those words. Smiling sadly, Charles took a shaky breath. “I must leave now.”

            _I know._ A pause. _Come find me later, songbird. Maybe I’ll finally hear you sing?_

            _When did you become such a saccharine romantic_? Charles demanded, sighing when Logan cleared his throat loudly. Staring hard at the fiberglass mask, he promised, _I’ll find you._

 

…

 

            After managing only a few hours of fitful sleep drenched in stifling nightmares, Charles was summoned to a staff meeting in Moira’s office.

            On his way up Charles had seen Hank, his lab coat billowing in the wind, helping the groundskeepers haul what was left of Mojo’s body to a sleek government aircraft. A clinging chill whispered down his spine when he realized Mojo’s corpse was off to some military lab on the mainland. And if he’d been found too late—if Erik hadn’t come to his rescue—would it be him in that body bag? Part of him wondered if a dead mutant was just that; a dead mutant stripped of all discerning identity to end up on the same slab as all the others.

            He shook himself free from those thoughts when the powerful punch of coffee wafted into his face. Staring down at the steaming cup, he blinked up at Alex as the guard slid into the seat next to him. A bandage was wrapped around his head and he had the same dark circles beneath his eyes as everyone else in the room. On his other side Sean was making unsuccessful attempts to sip the scalding liquid, seemingly desperate for the caffeine to wake him up. The shadows around his eyes seemed that much darker set against the freckles dusting his face.

            Captain Moira was seated at the head of the conference table, pale but alert. She did a perfunctory sweep of everyone in the room before initiating the meeting, her voice wringing out crisply, “A cause.”

  1.             “Mister Sinister identified Mojo as the cause,” murmured Logan. “He said he could track him like the eye of a storm; everything radiating from him.”            



            “I wouldn’t think he’d be capable considering the limitations of his mutation,” Charles spoke quickly, brows knit. “What else did Sinister say?”

            Resting his elbows on the table with steepled fingers, Logan grunted, “He said that he and Lehnsherr followed Mojo’s energy, and that he was bleeding rage out strong enough to infect other people. But that’s all I got.”

            An unpleasant pall of déjà vu hung over all assembled as it became clear that once again they were meeting on behalf of chaos stirred by Mojo. The unspoken conclusion was that of course he’d no longer be a problem.

 

            The Captain massaged her temples. “Fine, let’s explore that possibility. What’s the motive? And how did he manage the wherewithal to achieve it?”

            There was a distinct shift while several gazes darted none too subtly at Charles. It was Darwin who spoke the collective thought aloud.

            “Mojo had it in for Charles,” he said, shrugging. He reached across Logan to squeeze the psychiatrist's arm. “It was an obsession. I could see how through that he could...” he paused, searching for the right word, “Focus enough to push his power further.”

            Charles’ stomach twisted. Sharpening the knife.

            Moira looked thoughtful. “Let’s assume Mojo, through some secret technique, enhanced his powers; why would it only effect inmates?”

            “I had a theory,” Charles said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “About Mojo’s powers.” He knew that he had yet to cope with his own emotional state and the reality of what Mojo had almost done to him. The sedatives, and Charles’ own inherent nature to censor his memory, kept him safe from facing the truth. But to speak of Mojo still tasted bitter and goaded bile to rise at the back of his throat. “We are all aware that Mojo was mentally unstable, and it’s my belief that his particularly volatile brand of illness was caused by his incapacity to handle his mutation.” Taking a sip of the cooling coffee he closed his eyes to collect his thoughts. “It was too large for his mind. He never learned control or had the mental discipline to properly cope with his telepathic ability. In reflection, what we saw of Mojo’s mutation before the riot was something of a childish manipulation of adult tools.” Checking to see if everyone was following, Charles forged on, thoughts flashing a mile a minute as Mojo’s condition became clearer as he went. “Mojo’s power unhinged his mind at a very young age, and he’d never matured into the amount of focus it truly required. What was left was something of a livewire scrambling the typical human behavior affiliated with empathy or remorse. To simplify, Mojo’s power was corroding his mind, eating away at the sensible processes like a termite does to a piece of wood.”

            “That doesn’t explain how he managed such an exact attack,” Moira pointed out, her pallor diminishing as Charles delved further into the reality of Mojo’s mental decay. “If what you’re saying is right, then wouldn’t his power consume him and wreck any functionality left?”

            “You’re right that it did consume him,” Charles affirmed. “But Mojo’s mutation, instead of destroying him as one would assume, elevated his internal system to create a solid _purpose_ , and a very determined one at that.” Picking up the pencil sitting next to the blank notepad in front of him, Charles held it up. “Look at his pencil as my mutation.” The point was perfectly sharp and neat, freshly filed. “Logan, could you pass me your penknife?” Accepting the tiny edge, Charles whittled at the wood until the point, just as sharp, was a long jagged blade of lead with the wooden holder scraped off. “This is Mojo. His mutation, whittled away by the obsessive rage he was feeling, expanded and was honed into a directive weapon. The potential had been there the entire time, but Mojo had always been lacking the control to harness it and use it to its full strength. By the time his rage and desperation had reached the breaking point his ability had become a needle-thin force with the power of selection.” He was speaking almost too fast for the others to keep up, his pupils bloated by the avalanche of discovery. “He found rage that answered his own. He went among the minds and found the ones with rage. And in a prison, who do you think is sitting on so much anger?”

            “The inmates,” Sean provided, blinking through his coppery bangs. At Charles’ nod he added, “But everyone seemed so happy lately. I mean, with the Sanctuary-”

            “I believe,” he murmured sorrowfully, “that he Sanctuary may have played a part.” Sitting back, Charles chewed on the pencil eraser. “Just as I had hoped, the library gave the inmates an outlet. It gave them a place to let their guard down and enjoy themselves in the books.” His eyes fell unfocused. “They were opening themselves up, and that’s how Mojo slipped in to call upon the dormant demons, so to speak.” Chuckling hollowly, Charles rubbed his eyes. “The blessing that was a curse. Even the slightest rise in morale, and lately it’s been more than slight, defenses drop and stress levels out. The inmates were vulnerable to it.”

            The silence that followed was deafening. Charles seemed to come back into himself, running his fingers through his hair. Weariness that had receded with the torrent of words returned with a devastating swiftness and Charles slumped in his chair. Across the table Moira was watching him and a bitter smiled crept over his lips. There was no need to read her mind to see the fear and disbelief at the capabilities of mutants. Her eyes said everything. Charles’ cynicism was much closer to call than usual, and he found himself wondering again if he’d be lying in a bag on that mysterious government plane, on Moira’s orders nonetheless.

            “So what now?” Alex mumbled into his coffee. “Everyone’s acting like they’ve been in a daze.”

            “Which, effectively, they have,” Charles agreed.

            The door cracked open and Hank slunk in, grabbing a seat and looking distinctly windblown.

            “Sinister’s the only other telepath, right?” asked Logan, looking around the table. “And it isn’t even his primary thing.”

            “Sedation,” Darwin suggested. “He’s got a clean behavior record, so I wouldn’t do anything rash.”

            “The sedatives are ready,” Hank piped up, expression wracked with obvious guilt when he saw Charles. “They can be applied to the inmates at any time.” Glancing back at the psychiatrist, he looked relieved when Charles sent a brief flare of _forgivenessfriendship_ towards him.

            “We’ll need to prioritize by ability,” the Captain stated. “We’ll need to revise inmate profiles. Charles-” his face cleared in acknowledgement “-I’m going to put you on point for this one. I trust you can design a list of questions that will allow you to ferret out the necessary information.” She didn’t miss the shadow that crossed his expression.

            It would be simple. All he’d have to do is ask about their ability and any surface thoughts would indicate whether they were telling the truth. But the body bag haunted him. At what point would the government be unwilling to wait for a mutant’s death? Particularly mutant _inmates_ whose value to society was already painfully low. If Charles reported a mutation that was deemed too dangerous to remain alive; what then? Instantly he thought of Erik, bound and gagged like some kind of destructive beast. Anger swelled inside of him and he was forced to take a long breath. Logan was watching him closely, his suspicion open.

            “You okay, doc?” he murmured.

 “Tired,” Charles lied. “I don’t believe I slept very well.”         

            “I’d like to get this started in the next few days,” Moira said to the whole room, though her eyes were fixed on Charles.

            “What’s gonna happen to Lehnsherr?” grunted Logan, speaking around a cigar he’d fished from his pocket. “We can’t starve him; too much paperwork.” He held up his hands defensively as Charles shot him a dark look. “Joking, doc!”

            For a moment heavy exhaustion shone on her face and Moira had to take a deep breath before she spoke. “He’ll be put down in solitary. Mojo’s solitary.”

            “Not the well,” Charles exclaimed with obvious bafflement, standing abruptly. Darwin stood with him, gripping his arm. “There is nothing to warrant that level of treatment!” The slow pulse of anger beat into something stronger and Charles’ knuckles turned white under the force with which he clenched his fists. “As his counselor I can’t permit such an undeserving course of action.”

            Though her voice was unflappable, Moira’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You do realize that his ability could bring the entire place down on us? I’d feel that all staff, as well as the inmates, would be safer if Lehnsherr were placed in an environment that dissuades usage of his ability.” The crispness of the words settled, and all eyes turned back to Charles.

            “Erik has not indicated in any way that he is a danger to us or anyone else,” he bit out through his teeth. “What happened back in the hall was a defense mechanism. You were _shooting_ at him.”

            “He had you trapped in a metal sphere, Mr. Xavier,” she replied coolly.

            “He was protecting me. He _rescued_ me from Mojo.”

            A note of smugness entered her tone. “Mojo; whom he turned into mincemeat. There weren’t even whole pieces left, Mr. Xavier.”

            “You don’t know the situation-“

            “Because you have not yet reported on the situation. And I hope, Mr. Xavier,” she said in a clipped tone, “That your story aligns with the statement Sinister gave. I won’t remind you that these men are dangerous criminals, sent here for a reason. I understand you might establish some sort of attachment to them within your sessions, but do _not_ forget that they are not friends. They are your patients. Furthermore, they are wards of Juniper.” Narrowing her eyes, Moira steepled her fingers thoughtfully and added, “The Sanctuary will be put on hold until further notice, and you are no longer the lead for that project.” Resting her chin gently against the curve of her palm, Moira watched the color drain from Charles’ face. It was not something she wanted to do, but the way Charles so adamantly defended Lehnsherr, and referred to him by his first name; there was no denying the flame of suspicion ignited in her gut. “Lehnsherr will be moved to solitary tonight.”

            Jerking out of Darwin’s grip, Charles stated firmly, “I will not allow it. It would be detrimental to Er-Mister Lehnsherr’s mental state.”

            “Charles,” Darwin murmured, drawing close. “Stop.”

            “He’s already strung up in that terrible way, and to add insult to injury you’d stick him down in a dank dungeon like some medieval terror. I cannot allow this inhumane method.”

            Knocking back her chair as she surged to her feet, Moira yelled, “It is not inhumane to properly prevent a _mutant_ from bringing the walls down around us if he so wished!”

            It snapped, whatever it was holding his anger back. “Then do away with him, Captain,” he hissed, “Hand him over in a body bag to your government vultures waiting to pick and prod at him as if he were some grade school science subject. In the end, isn’t that all we are here? We’re the holding cells for government experiments, biding our time until the next corpse is ready. For all we know, the staff go the same way, too? One mutant’s as evil and warped as the next?”

            She slammed her fist down on the table with a crack. At this point everyone else at the table was standing except for Sean, who was attempting unsuccessfully to hide behind his coffee mug. But she didn’t care; she was livid. “This is a gross violation of the code of conduct, Xavier,” she snarled. “Your insolence and blatant disregard for the policies in place here have seriously compromised your quality as a staff member. You best collect your things; I’m sending you out tomorrow. And _not_ ,” she added waspishly, “in a body bag, if you’re lucky.”

 

...

 

            He’d been exiled to the dorms while Logan apparently tried to talk sense to the Captain. Alex had brought him back, leaving for a few minutes to retrieve Delilah from his room to keep the psychiatrist company. Once Charles left the meeting and realized just what he’d said and how completely disrespectful he’d been, he was horrified with himself. He barely scraped together a grateful smile when Alex deposited the African Violet on his bedside table, along with a few vinyl records of music that she evidently enjoyed. Putting one in Logan’s record player, he sat with his face in his hands as the soft, melodious croon of Nina Simone curled lavishly through the air.

            The lyrics were only a faint background noise at first. Charles was far too lost in his own wretchedness. How in the world could he let himself go like that? If anything, Erik would be in an even worse situation. And the thought of leaving... Juniper was home. Juggernaut, Sinister, Sean, Alex, Darwin, Logan... even Moira. How could he be so stupid as to doubt her in the wake of a prison-wide riot? The human staff members had been all but helpless in such a closed-in setting. And the body bag... what choice was there? He’d heard of the bodies of convicts being sold into labs for study. To further science, further medical research. Had it ever affected him this way, like it did when it was a mutant in the bag? Guilt ate at his stomach. He must apologize. To leave, to leave Juniper, to leave his friends – his _family_ \- was a physically painful thought.

            And then there was Erik. He danced around the uncorrupt affection and warmth that had poured out of the man when he held him. He tried not to think about the net of impenetrable safety when he’d been pressed to Erik’s chest. It had just been so painful to hear anyone refer to him as dangerous and wicked when Charles had seen his soul.

            But what then? What was it Charles wanted? Erik was a criminal. There was no denying the blood on his hands.

            The record scratched as the song shifted, Nina’s voice rolling into a darkly aching keen.

            The thought came unbidden: and what about when Erik died?

            He’d be closed up in a body bag. Just like the rest.

            Charles pressed his clasped hands tightly to his lips, staring at the floor hunched over as the troubling image returned, despite his attempt to reason it away.

            Nina’s voice poured over him, haunting and sorrowful.

_...trees bear a strange fruit..._

He closed his eyes.

            _...on the leaves... And blood at the roots..._

And would he live his life down in that dank cell, just waiting to be put on the slab after death?

            _...bodies swinging..._

            Charles shut his eyes, biting down into the thin flesh of his knuckles as he fought to banish the thought.

_...strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees..._

 

...

 

            Hank came up to his room later to do another check on his vitals. Charles guessed this one wasn’t required by the almost hurried way Hank carried out the procedure. As Hank poked at his temple for the third time, face looking a bit constipated, Charles finally let him off the hook, “Hank, do you think I did permanent damage at the debrief? I feel like a right idiot.”

            Exhaling with relief, Hank shook his head. “We all talked her down and she’s agreed that you’re an invaluable member of the Juniper staff,” he recited happily. “It’s really Sean you should thank though.”

            “Sean?”

            “Well,” he stuttered, “the Captain was furious after you left. Even Logan was keeping his distance. But then Sean said ‘Juggernaut’.”

            Brows furrowed, Charles shrugged. “What about him?”

            “You wouldn’t know... he’s had somewhat of a personal revolution since that first session with you. He used to walk around growling at the other inmates, keeping mainly to himself.”

            Thinking of the giant of a man now, Charles had a difficult time recalling Juggernaut’s defensive attitude the first time they’d met. “And how did mentioning Juggernaut soothe the, well, _not_ so savage beast?”

            Hank blinked at him. “Since his session with you, Charles, he’s been more personable. He’s practically an honorary staff-member. I mean, he _helped_ quell the riot.” Pausing to let that sink in, he added, “Speaking of that; why didn’t he join the riot? Why didn’t Mojo’s influence work?”

            Smiling, Charles said, “Juggernaut’s at peace with himself. He’s been incredibly receptive to reflection and self-encouragement. It’s been a remarkable progression from what I’ve seen, even more so from what you say.”

            “Well, you can thank him for being your golden boy because the Captain had to relent.”

            “Relent, which in this context means...”

            “No packing your bags, for one,” he chirped, hooking his stethoscope back around his neck. “And also an opportunity to offer an alternative for Erik Lehnsherr.”

            Perking up, he squinted at his friend. “So no beastly solitary confinement?”

            “Not the well, anyway. _If_ we can come up with something feasible as an alternative.” Glancing down at his hands and twiddling his thumbs, Hank asked, “Could you stop him if he tried something, Charles?”

            “Yes,” he answered without hesitation. Mostly because it was the truth, but also because it was the answer Hank needed to hear to justify whatever came next. “I can immobilize him and effectively stifle his ability.”

            “Then we have some tests to run.”

            Making a face, he ventured, “No needles though?”

            “None for you,” Hank answered brightly, making another of his abrupt exits. If a serum could be developed to target telepathy then Hank was certain he could develop a sedative to temporarily weaken or staunch the mental access to abilities. It was risky, as a mutant’s ability was inherent to their physicality as well, like a reflex. But it would be worth it. He had a feeling if Erik Lehnsherr went down below Charles would somehow go down with him, in flames.

 

…

 

            _Erik?_

            The empty rattling of his breath stilled. Beneath the mask his eyes fluttered open, lashes crushed against the fiberglass.

            _Charles._

_Are you all right?_

He shifted on the cot, aware of several guards in the room and posted in the hall. There were still a few inmates recovering from injuries in the medical wing. _If you’ll accept a very loose definition of ‘all right’._ A brush of frustration, pity, and even anguish crossed his countenance second-hand, like the flicker of a memory. _You’re so close_. _Is it like before, can you feel me?_

Even what seemed like miles away in the dorms Charles felt the flush of desire. Erik’s razor sharp mind a room filled with intoxicating smoke. He shied from the force of the mutant’s emotions and sent back a wave of calm. _Erik, I need you to listen-_

 _Can you come?_ He shifted subtly on the cot, biting down viciously on the claustrophobic fear roiling around in his chest. They were idiots to think he couldn’t still feel the metal around him, bend it to his will. But there was no way he was going to jeopardize the chance to see Charles again, make sure that he was truly alright. _I’m trapped inside my own head. I can’t see, this plastic smells toxic._

            _I... can’t._ Heart clenching with guilt as he sensed Erik’s forlorn response, his mid was barraged with images of Erik tied down, stripped of his senses; even the use of his mouth to breathe. Suffocating.

            _I understand_ , he replied quickly, hoping Charles didn’t catch the crushing disappointment. No doubt the counselor had come under heat after the situation they were found in; he could feel Charles’ frustration. He didn’t want him to get in more trouble and be forced to stay away longer. _I can wait for you, songbird._

            Biting his lip, Charles furrowed his brow. _You may not have to, Erik._ Jogging over to the window, he cranked open a section of the webbed glass and pushed his face into the crisp air. With a twist of concentration, he asked, _Can you feel it, Erik?_

For a moment he strained against the belts, body reacting to the sensation of air floating over his face. Cold air. Fresh, salty from the sea. He breathed noisily through the gag pinching his lips. _Yes._

Glancing back at movement down below; guards returning to their quarters after long hours, Charles made a decision. _Erik_ , he called, _Would you like to go for a walk?_

If he focused on the bars solid beneath his fingers the height wasn’t nearly as frightening. Not that it was the first time Charles had been on the roof, but his body was still feeling the effects of everything that had happened. The body remembers much more clearly and deeply than the mind and Charles hadn’t fully recovered. And his useless arm was a heavy burden, making the climb agonizingly slow. Climbing over the lip of the rooftop he hastily checked if anyone else was around. Because of extra staffing needs patrols like the shore and roof routes had been cut until new security measures were put in place. This meant Charles was alone on the rooftop, shivering in the chill of the wind. Well, alone except for Erik.

            Feigning sleep made him feel like a child again, on the last night of Hanukkah. It was just as difficult as it had been then, though for very different reasons. Waiting for his mother to go to bed wasn’t quite the same as waiting for the last guard to step out of the room. But once he was left only with another heavily sedated inmate hooked up to a beeping machine, Erik allowed himself to luxuriate in the sensation of cool wind on his skin. As if he was fitted inside of Charles’ body, feeling _everything_ he felt. _It’s wonderful._

            _Would you like to see the sunset, Erik?_ Peering over the coral-kissed waves, Charles had to squint. The brilliant rays of the sun glowed in a dazzling gold, emblazing bright purple clouds floating like tufts of dandelion seed. And riding the hazy horizon was an azure stretch of land. He wanted Erik to see this. He wanted them to see it together.

            Erik hadn’t seen a sunset in years. Once, on one of his rooftop ventures, he’d glimpsed the end of the sunrise. But inmates were locked up in windowless cells by sunset. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the mask and gasped when he felt Charles eyes open and in front of him was the beautiful stretch of blending colors, the sharp scent of the stirring water, and the beautiful slide of wind. And somewhere behind it all was Charles. Encased in Charles’ warmth, guided by the softness of his mind’s touch. He pushed further and Charles drew him in; they both inhaled sharply when their minds mingled on a deeper level than ever before. Erik could feel every experience: the hair falling across Charles’ forehead, the weight of his belt, the very slight pinch of his shoes after a long day on his feet.

            He knew tears were running down Erik’s face, catching and sliding on the cruel fiberglass covering his face. Charles felt the swell of emotions dredged up from the depths of Erik’s consciousness, summoned by the juxtaposed position of being bound and free all at once. _Erik_ , he said, _I’m sorry if it’s too much._

_I want more, Charles. I’d like to give you more._

Heat. They were so closely intertwined now. Charles still had control but that didn’t mean he wasn’t disconnected from Erik’s emotions and even his physical state. And so he felt the undeniable touch of arousal uncurling slowly between them. At first Charles shook his head, already letting Erik slip away, but he understood that the touch was so very far from Mojo’s evil. It was the same sort of feeling they’d shared in the sphere. He could see the sincerity, the care the hesitance. This feeling sweeping through him was real and pure. Slowly folding to his knees, Charles realized that tears were running down his own face. He wanted desperately to hold Erik, to cling to him, to protect him and be protected.

            Something had changed in him, inside of the sphere. When Erik held him, when he felt the first inklings of Erik’s intentions, his emotions. Something between them was made permanent, unbreakable. Forged in the heat and terror, Charles now realized the extent to which he wanted the other mutant. No one, not even in childhood, had held him the way Erik had, or had looked at him with such adoration.

            Moving his hand down his stomach, Charles stared out at the water as he rubbed his hand over the erection growing between his legs. A flurry of emotions loosed from Erik and Charles savored every one. Slipping his hand inside his pants, he caressed the hardening cock. He breathed heavily through his nose, experiencing his arousal twofold as Erik writhed beneath his binds.

            _Charles_ , he beseeched, _Are you sure? Isn’t it too soon?_

 _As long as you stay right here with me, Erik_ , he answered truthfully, _I’ll be fine. I want this._ His fingers curled against the metal of the roof as he stroked himself, and by proxy, Erik. Ten minutes later, wrapped tightly in an achingly sweet orgasm, Charles relaxed on his back, body stretched along the roof. Above the sky had dwindled to soft violet and the clouds were now nothing but wispy swirls of silver hanging like tinsel above the black sea.

 

...

 

            Erik went very still when he felt Charles approaching the next day, reaching out to greet him minutes before his physical presence reached the room. He’d been transferred to from the medical ward. The doctor was with him and Erik could practically smell the nerves coming off him. But whatever the doctor thought didn’t matter. Charles’ mind wound around his in a way that was becoming familiar, an intimacy that sent warm pulses throughout his body.

            “We can release him,” Charles reasoned quietly, the timber of his voice smooth. Hank gave him a skeptical look. “I told you, if Erik in any way attempts to escape or harm I can stop him.” _I hope that doesn’t offend you, my friend._

_If the mask is coming off I could stand to be offended._

            He licked his lips and blinked his eyes rapidly after Hank removed the mask. When the smell and taste was gone Erik looked deep into the blue eyes he’d seen through the night before. “Much better.”

            “So Lehnsherr,” Hank started, eyeing a clipboard. “We’re going to be running some tests today.” Blinking through his glasses at the dreamy expression Lehnsherr wore, his eyes obviously fixed on Charles, Hank sighed and continued, “Charles will be monitoring your mental patterns when you access your abilities, which we will allow on a very limited basis for the trial.” Perfectly aware that he was being ignored, Hank cleared his throat in irritation and announced, “If you fail these tests we’ll be forced to house you by other means.”

            Now Erik tore his attention away. “Other means?”

            “ _That_ got your attention,” the doctor grumbled. “I’ll need to keep you strapped in with the carbon fiber. There’s no use attempting to break the straps; not even the strongest form of metal can break it, so I hope we can expect your cooperation.”

            “I should be flattered,” he drawled, offering the young doctor a toothy smile that went completely unacknowledged. Shooting a playful look to an amused Charles he added, “I’ve never seen this wing of the ward.”

            Ignoring him, Hank slapped on a few wired monitors to his chest beneath the straps and regarded Charles with skepticism. “You’re sure you’ll be all right alone? I’ll need to track the waves from the other side of the wall but I can let the reports run and looks over them later.”

            Chuckling, Charles clapped him on the back. “I promise we won’t gossip about you while you’re out of earshot.”

            Rolling his eyes, Hank stepped out of the room, leaving Charles and Erik alone.

            “Charles,” he said, voice dropping. “Last night-“

            “Was wonderful, Erik,” he completed for him, smiling.

            Lips quirking, Erik let his gaze travel over the other man slowly. “I have no regrets, but I also want to make sure that you’re...” he trailed off, brows knit.

            His chest tightened. He knew what Erik was tiptoeing around; something he himself had yet to fully comprehend. What almost happened with Mojo still terrified him, and yet it was hard to buckle under the ‘what if’ when Erik’s intervention, his rescue, was so powerful. In his memory it replays as an obliterating light. And the incredible safeness he’d felt after had lodged its way into his heart and he couldn’t fathom dwelling any longer. By no means was he fixed, or recovered completely, even from the horror of the Academy, but in a way a great deal of him had healed in the strange trauma of being ripped from the jaws of death and whisked into blinding light.

            “I’ve never been better,” he assured the inmate, resting his hand on Erik’s arm. The touch was electrifying, and he watched Erik’s pupils dilate. Last night he had masturbated with Erik inside his mind, sharing every touch, every pulse of pleasure. Fondly he remembered lecturing Erik on boundaries; all of which had been shattered by now. And it was difficult to feel guilty about that, even though part of him did regret the professional betrayal.

            “So what are we here for, though I’m not sure I mind too much,” he said cheekily, leaning into Charles’ touch as the man moved his hand to press Erik’s jawline.

            _A mental challenge_ , he hinted, _If you’ll allow it_.

            A flicker of suspicion was doused when Charles leaned in slightly; scarlet clad lips a lovely bow-shaped distraction. _I’m guessing the humans wanted to find new ways to cage me?_

            He caught on the term ‘humans’, and remembered the eerily dark melody sung by Nina Simone compelling the recurring image of the body bag. _Is that why you’ve hid your ability for so long?_

_In a house of straw would you keep a candle burning?_

_You make it seem as if we’re going to douse you,_ he replied, smoothing his hand over the crown of Erik’s head. Hank couldn’t see them from the monitor room.

            “Are you?”

            “No,” he said firmly.

            Turning his head to rest on his cheek, pulling slightly at the monitoring patch stuck to the curve of his neck, Erik tried to read Charles’ expression. “What does that mean?”

            “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, gut twisting. A red flare of ‘conflict of interest’ blared madly in the back of his head. “But as the candle in a house made of straw, why don’t you light up the place?” The question surfaced almost unexpectedly, and now Charles burned with the wonder. “Why don’t you just leave?”

For the first time in a long while Erik’s expression was completely closed off. The eyes once suffused with energy smoothed out into unreadable glass. He looked away from Charles, jaw tightening perceptibly. Wincing when the psychiatrist withdrew, he said quietly, “I’m waiting for someone.”

            A line of dread drew itself across his consciousness. Charles blinked. "Waiting for someone to join you here?” He hesitated, an odd knot in his throat. "Someone special?" Those eyes like chips of stained glass darted to his face but Charles couldn’t meet them.

            Watching the other mutant closely, Erik narrowed his eyes. “Cha-”

            He froze. Charles looked up at him, worry etched across his face. Then they both heard it, distant and faint.

            Even this deep, they could hear the chilling sound of the razor wire coiling the water along Juniper’s shores. Or, more accurately: the razor wire snapping with a distinct _twang_ to set their teeth on edge. Even Hank came running back in and they all traded confused gazes as the terrible _twanging_ of split wires increased in frequency.

            Something was moving through the water outside.

            Something was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics were taken from Strange Fruit. The story features the Nina Simone version. Be forewarned about the content of the song if you decide to give it a listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcCm_ySBslk


	12. Crushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is much angst, much sass, and much violence. And possibly some light shed on the strange-ass behavior displayed in the last chapter by one Charles Xavier.

**  
**

“Charles,” he said calmly as a monstrous groan shook the foundation of the jail, “Release me.”

                  Hank sputtered, stumbling forward, “N-no, I don’t think-“

                  “What you think,” Erik snapped, eyes still on Charles, “Is entirely irrelevant at the present moment.” Tone softening, he beseeched the wide blue eyes, _Charles. They will all die. All of them. You need to let me free._

He felt cold all of a sudden and every ache and broken bone subdued by medication flared with pain. His adrenaline was pumping by proxy; hypersensitive to the roiling storm of emotions Erik was projecting. Though he wasn’t sure why, he knew that he had to set Erik loose or the foreboding prediction would come true. With a flick of thought Hank froze in place, a garbled stream of frantic protests falling from his mouth. Gasping through the rising pain in his arm, Charles tore at Erik’s binds to loosen the plastic buckles and belts. They fell away and Erik swung himself free, eyes hard above a grimly set mouth.

                  “The humans,” Erik murmured. “Wherever they went during the riot; they must return there now.”

                  Hank squealed though his frozen lips, eyes whirling wildly in their sockets as a deafening crash rocked the floor. His mind scrambled to make connection with his limbs, and as if dropped from a giant’s hand he suddenly stumbled forward, Charles catching him awkwardly with his good hand. “What are you thinking,” he wailed shrilly, wheeling around to dive for a colorful display of syringes intended for Erik’s sedation. But he froze the next moment when the tray of needles neatly crumpled, easy as tin foil. Looking back at the mutant, Hank gulped uneasily. “You have to understand-”

                  “No time,” Erik interrupted, slamming the door open as he dragged Charles out of the room. “Doctor, notify the human staff that they must _hide_!”

                  They were running, Charles panting at the strain on his body. Questions bubbled forth, but he hadn’t the breath to voice them as Erik pulled him around another corner. Two guards spotted them and raised their voices but Erik simply waved his hand and they were lifted like toys into the air. Charles stared up at them as he and Erik sprinted past, craning around to see their safe descent. It was then he became aware that Erik was projecting again. This time it was a clear message, and not intended for him.

                  _HOLD OFF. HOLD OFF. WAIT FOR MY SIGNAL._

Brows knit, Charles gasped, “Erik, stop… I need-” The mutant looked back at him questioningly, immediately brushing his hand over Charles’ pulse point, tugging at his lower eyelid to peer into his eyes. “No, I’m fine – Erik, who are you talking to?”

                  Before he could answer another crash shuddered the walls, but this time the source was definite. Erik cursed as Charles paled, the counselor jogging ahead to a window to stare out. He already knew the angle was wrong, but it didn’t matter. The direction of the noise was obvious.

                  Charles understood the horrible crunch of stone and metal. His insides twisted and he whispered in realization, “The Sanctuary…”

                  Gritting his teeth, Erik reached out further, searching. He needed to find her before any blood was shed.

                  They ran along the walls, using Charles’ clearance pass to get through doors. The alarm had been raised, familiar red lights flashing. Charles could only be thankful the inmates were already in lockdown and the guards were free to move about. Just as he was reaching for the last door that would take them into the administrational floor, he screamed. Crumpling against the wall, Charles clawed at the plaster, lancing pain stabbing through his head. Erik’s hands were on him instantly, shaking him by his shoulders. His voice was distant, muffled. But Charles could have been thousands of miles away at this point, descending abruptly into a disconnected stillness. White. All white.

                  Charles heard a name and the blood in his veins ran suddenly cold.

                  _Emma._

 

…

 

                  Erik hauled Charles along, wincing with every explosion or gunshot. They were poised to infiltrate, and then it would begin. Charles’ head lolled, eyes wild and lips forming silent words. When Erik heard the plasma blast from the blond guard – a sound he’d only heard once but would never forget – he knew the time for human halls and human doors had expired. He’d make him own path and get Charles safely out.

                  The pipes inside the walls were metal serpents, whipping and thrashing, destroying the cement and the stone. Pressing Charles to his chest, Erik ripped the wall to shreds. Light poured in obscured by dust and Erik held Charles close as he glided them down to the ground. By now the counselor was awakening to his surroundings, face drawn and pale. Erik didn’t have time to wonder what had made him disappear into his head like that. Across the grounds, scorched with deep grooves that had burned the soil, guardsmen were shooting at the massive submarine that had wedged itself onto the island right next to the wreckage of the Sanctuary. The library looked like a tornado had torn though it, and Erik was quite sure that one had. Fluttering pages torn loose from their binds wheeled through the air in a spiraling parody of seagulls. Through the torrent of white paper Erik could see five figures. One was standing in front, arms raised and even at this distance Erik could see the smile. Glancing over to the guards, he crushed their weapons and every other gun within reach. They noticed him them, through the storm of pages.

                  Sebastian Shaw smiled and waved patronizingly.

                  “Erik,” Charles stammered, staring up into the macabre beauty of the pieces of paper caught and played with by the wind. “This… This is who you were waiting for?” His voice cracked slightly, confusion weighing him down. Emma. Emma Frost. He couldn’t quite see the other figures moving in the white storm, but he could recognize Emma’s fierce mind. She caught him like a baby bird in the palm of her hand and held him there. In her diamond form he was helpless against her and she’d cut into him as precise as a scalpel. And unless he’d imagined it, she’d been laughing when she released him. He shook his head, frantically scanning the guardsmen and grimacing when he saw at least two down. “Erik,” he demanded, “Who are those people?”

                  “Not people,” he corrected, reaching towards to the water. Everyone turned to see the water’s surface erupt in a violent churning of foam. Rising from the deep, glinting menacingly in the naked sun, the razor wires swayed and snapped. Erik drew them forward, a cold smile alighting on his lips when the guards cried out and ran. From above Banshee screamed in a series of high-pitched beats.

                  Charles spun on his heel; jaw dropping as the razor wire flew over his head in deadly lines of dripping wet metal. A massive deconstructed python, they wrapped Juniper round and round, covering the exits, choking the windows. Erik’s fingers moved beautifully, as if he were playing the piano. Charles could only stare as the metal-bender worked, wrapping Juniper like a ghastly present. A slow line of thoughts drifted to him as he watched Erik work.

                  _Trustmetrustmetrustme._

There was a roar and sparks flew as Wolverine cut through the razor wire, teeth bared angrily. Guards poured out behind him, bullets already flying. Moira’s slim figure flashed past as her lethal aim sliced through the air. Logan squinted. There was paper everywhere, whirling around like it was caught on some ascending current of controlled air. And there – he cursed. Goddamn Lehnsherr had Charles. Snarling, Logan broke into a dead run, trusting Moira and the others not to sink a bullet into his back. Not that it would stay inside; his healing ability would push it out. Didn’t mean it was painless. He was a streak across the grass, claws flashing. Green eyes scoured him, and Logan bellowed, leaping at the inmate, metal talons leading and hungry to rend flesh.

                  His lips quirked up as Wolverine froze mid-air. Charles was clutching his side; voice a cacophony of pleas raining against him. Staring straight into angry brown eyes, Erik calmly rotated his hand and Wolverine was pitched upwards.

                  “My god, Erik,” he yelled, “Let him go! Stop!” He flinched as bullets flew around them, falling harmlessly several feet away to create a warped take on a fairy ring. He scratched at Erik’s arm, too concerned with Logan’s welfare to try and push with his mind. Behind them the people obscured by the book pages were moving and Charles swore there was a crack-flash of red appearing and disappearing in an erratic pattern out of the corner of his eye.

                  Bruised fingers wrapped around his wrists and Erik realized Charles had grabbed him with his broken arm. Frowning, his eyes followed the bulky line of the cast until he noticed a red stain growing beneath the tightly wound bandages. “Charles,” he said, “Your arm-”

                  “Let him down,” he said quietly, and squeezed. Charles bit back a yelp at the pain, and Erik’s eyes widened as the bloodstain spread.

                  “What the hell are you doing!?“ he demanded, Wolverine descending only a touch above plummeting. He wouldn’t die.

                  Charles swayed and informed him primly, “Resorting to drastic measures.” The pain in his arm resounded with scintillating fire.  He felt ill, but now Erik’s attention was trained completely on him. “I don’t want you hurting staff, please,” he explained weakly, staring down at his own arm.

                  “You idiot,” Erik growled, cursing as blood actually dribbled out the tight space between Charles’ wrist and the cast. The fool had split his stitches and if the wound had had this little time to heal the bone could set wrong, if not break through the skin. “ _Verdammte scheiße_!” With a frustrated sweep of his hand Wolverine – currently struggling to his feet – was thrown, along with every guard wearing metal. Bodies went rolling across the grass; tumbling inelegantly like underpaid circus performers.

                  The Captain slammed into the wall and cursed bitterly. She grabbed her radio and yelled, “Darwin, Sean, Alex! No metal!”

                  He hefted Charles up into his arms, wishing for the only time ever that the bumbling doctor with his trigger-happy sedatives would make an appearance. The psychiatrist wasn’t losing massive amounts of blood by any means, but his body was still raw and the pain alone could shut him down and put him in a dangerous space. Erik wouldn’t let that happen; he kept his promises.

 

...

 

                  Sean scrambled after Darwin, blinking when the other man changed before his eyes, skin taking on a scaly stone appearance. Alex caught up to them, the bandage on his head looking worse for wear.

                  “Should you be out?” Darwin asked; hand poised to touch until he remembered his skin would probably hurt Alex more than help.

                  “Already tore up a good chunk of the ground,” Alex said by way of an answer, jogging up ahead. “They have something that absorbs my blasts.”

                  Sean squeaked, “ _Absorbs_?” Then; “ _Plasma_?”

  1. “When it rains, it pours.”



                  They burst out through the doors, Moira immediately grabbing Alex and jabbing her finger in a vague direction. “Lehnsherr,” she ordered. “Take him down.” Patting the blond man’s back as he nodded sharply and ran into the endless swirl of paper, Moira fixed Darwin and Sean with a grim stare. “It’s a man. He’s the source of some energy vacuum. And they have someone who can manipulate wind-” she faltered, eyes growing wide. Behind the two men stood quite suddenly a tall red demon. His knives flashed, inhuman face pinching with frustration as the blade skittered uselessly along Darwin’s back. The guard whipped around immediately, fear long washed from his system to be replaced with instinct, and clamped down on the red mutant’s arm. Gasping, Moira stumbled back when they both disappeared in a cloud of red smoke.

                  “Wha-” Sean breathed, yelping when Darwin and the red mutant appeared again, rolling across the ground. The creature’s tail was wrapped around Darwin’s neck ineffectively. A throaty string of what sounded like Russian curses poured from his mouth while Darwin almost casually punched him in the face with a rock solid hand. Sean started forward, but Captain Moira yanked him back. “Captain-” he objected, turning to find her glaring over his shoulder. Following her gaze, he made out five figures through the swirling air. One broke off from the group, running full tilt towards the wall until it leapt and effortlessly scaled the surface like an insect shining stark blue against the pale adobe.

                  “That guy,” she murmured, frown tightening when Erik came back into view, carrying Charles in his arms. The psychiatrist's face was hidden; buried in the mutant’s chest. The others didn’t seem to pay him any mind, though a blonde woman in white reached out to touch the back of Charles’ head. But the man leading the group of mutants captured Moira’s attention; his helmet was glinting in the sunlight as the pages finally began to settle. They fell like snowflake into the grass and a slender man with dark hair and fine features lowered his hands with them. Pulling Sean closer, she said, “That man with the helmet has deflected or absorbed everything. Alex will focus on Lehnsherr, but you’re the only one whose ability doesn’t have a physical form.” Her brows knit as she looked for comprehension. “Do you understand? Alex’s rays, even our bullets; he can somehow absorb them. So I need you,” she continued, mouth twisting into a bitter smile, “to _gently_ make his ears bleed.” Hefting her gun, she took a shot at the tangle of Darwin and the red mutant, smirking when the creature howled. The pair disappeared again, the smoke smelling more acrid this time. “Go get him, Sean,” she ordered softly, raising her gun and calmly aiming for the wind-worker.

 

…

 

                  “As charming as this is,” Shaw observed, “I’d appreciate if you prioritized your obligations a little more responsibly.” Erik was clutching a man to his chest.

                  “You seem to be handling things just fine,” he snidely remarked, nodding to the others that collected at Shaw’s side. “Where’s-” Erik held his tongue as Azazel appeared, roaring with rage as he sliced at the black guard’s face with a viciousness born from desperation. “That won’t do you any good,” he called to the other mutant, catching Darwin’s eyes for the barest of moments before the two teleported again. His head jerked as he stopped a bullet from entering the side of Janos’ head, the young man’s lip curling as he wrenched his arms up and wielded twin cyclones extended from his arms. He threw them at the guards, openly laughing when they were swept up, Logan cutting through the wind even as he was thrown for the third time that day. Erik turned back to Shaw. “Mystique?”

                  “Inside,” Emma answered, pressing her manicured fingers to the back of Charles’ head. Her smile was small, secret, and she caught the look of suspicion Erik cast her before she shrugged and wandered off. “We’ll have the codes in no time,” she said to Shaw, fluttering her pretty lashes. “Time to let the boys out.”

                  Shaw’s smug answer was drowned out by Angel lifting from the ground with her wings buzzing madly. Janos swerved the serpentine twisters out of her way while she weaved through the air, screams echoing below when she spit the acid that accompanied her gift of flight.

                  “Too easy,” Shaw sighed. He smirked when a minor explosion sent tendrils of fire twirling up into Janos’ tornadoes. “Pretty.” But a frown was quick to follow. He tapped the side of his helmet. “You hear anything?” When Erik shook his head, distracted by the man still unconscious in his arms, Shaw rolled his eyes. “You can stow him in the sub; we still need you.”

                  Only half listening, Erik strode away, listening intently to the small whimpers coming from Charles’ mouth as the psychiatrist fought towards consciousness. The blood had slowed, though his face was still deathly pale.

                  Shaw watched them go. Whatever precious cargo Erik had so insolently stolen for himself, Shaw would have the final say on the matter. He doubted very much that the boy in his protégé’s arms was a human; nonetheless… Jerking up, Shaw hissed as the minor ringing in his ears – barely worth his attention a moment ago – swung into a sharp crescendo before falling entirely away. According to Erik’s report (received through Emma) there was no other effective telepath besides one he’d mentioned months ago – one he only brought up once if Shaw remembered correctly. Never after that. When Shaw had asked Emma to inquire further she’d told him Erik had said it was no longer an issue.

                  Slipping the helmet off, Shaw frowned at the needling headache starting at his temple. The pain patterned out over his skull like water trickling down the spine of a leaf. And the ringing returned, a higher pitch, a pulse. Shaking his head, Shaw looked around him. Erik was only halfway to the sub, deflecting any bullets that managed to make it past Janos and Angel. Narrowing his eyes, Shaw noticed someone creeping along the wall; a blond young man with a bandage on his head.

                  Recognition flickered before the ringing became a lancing screech that blew painfully between his ears. “ _Wer ist es_?” He stumbled, clutching his head. Eyes darting wildly around him, Shaw couldn’t see anyone near enough to him to – he screamed raggedly as the needling sound split tenfold into a chorus of ugly jagged scrapes out his ears. For the first time in years Sebastian Shaw was in pain. He curled into the ground; there was nothing to grasp, nothing to absorb, to steal. It was a pressure without form, ripping out his ear canal and pounding mercilessly against the confines of his skull.

  1.                   Erik heard Shaw cry out and turned to watch the man fall. Something he had never seen before; never thought was possible. Charles stirred in his arms, pushing at him. His melodic accent slurred, but it was not in pain. Erik had a feeling Emma may have eased it away in a rare display of kindness. He flinched when Shaw screamed again. Pressing his lips to Charles’ ear, he whispered, “Stay. Please just stay out of harm’s way; I’ll only be gone a mo-” Something white-hot and blistering went thundering past him, curling the ends of his hair. Whipping around, Erik saw Alex coming towards him, fiery red rings scorching the air. His eyes darted first to Charles fluttering blue eyes, then to Shaw thrashing around and striking out at invisible foes. Another furious shot of red came swinging closer and Erik snarled, shoving Charles away from him and springing away. He ran hard across the ground, far more concerned about Charles than himself.         



                  Alex followed with a moment’s hesitation to make sure Charles landed on his feet before he twisted his body in a rigid shudder, releasing another plasma ring that Lehnsherr barely managed to dodge. He sent another, smaller volley out when the blank wall of Juniper closest to them burst with a spray of cement and metal, the plasma slicing through and melting the deadly debris even as the inmate pushed.

                  “So what the fuck is this shit?” Alex bellowed through the fire falling around them. Lehnsherr’s jaw was clenched and he was very obviously looking back at Charles. “You were what? A mole?”

                  “And you’re what?” he snapped back, craning to see as Charles began to stumble along the grass near the remains on the Sanctuary. Gaze sliding over, he saw Shaw standing again, head thrown back. A flush of complete terror washed through him when he realized that Shaw was going to detonate. “Alex,” he yelled, “Listen to me.” He held up his hands, eyes flitting between Alex’s mutinous expression and Shaw. “What’s happening to him? Who is doing that to him?”

                  Air crackling as he began to charge another plasma ring, Alex snorted, “Like hell I’m going to tell you.”

                  “He’s a bomb, you idiot,” Erik shouted. “He’s a bomb and he’s about to release everything you lot have sent at him, plus more. There will be nothing left!” Charles… His eyes pleaded and Alex must have seen something because the plasma ring faded out with merely a flicker. “He absorbs energy and can manipulate it. Whatever you’ve done to him – he’s going to stop it by any means necessary and it’ll take out the entire island.” Shaw didn’t do well with pain.

                  “Shit,” he hissed, “It’s Sean.”

                  Of course. Erik blinked. Banshee. Sounds, smells, amorphous echoes; Shaw couldn’t reach them. But there was no time to speculate. Erik’s hand shot out and he tore the crow’s nest from its foundation and shook it like a child would a snow-globe in midair. “He’s not hurt,” he gritted as Alex stepped forward. Dropping the nest with only a slight measure of care, Erik was able to twist on his heel, falling into a desperate sprint. His voice was ragged as he screamed for Shaw. He drew every piece of metal not connected to a person and threw it in front of him, a great wave of steel that Shaw caught in a stagger.

                  He gripped the metal with his bare hands, anchoring himself. Erik, his Erik, was running towards him; face a constrained melee of fear. He smiled easily and fitted the helmet back onto his head when he realized the noise had stopped. The smile disappeared as soon as he realized that Erik had gone flying past him, beautiful body a machine of intent. Left in the wake of that terrible screeching was soft cotton emptiness, and Shaw lost himself in it while he witnessed the boy he made throw himself at the feet of the young man.

                  The young man.

                  Shaw gaped at him. Then he dissolved into hysterical laughter, ignoring the rapid rise of beating wind at his back as one of Janos’ tornadoes gashed the ground close by.

                  Charles Xavier.

                  And Erik.

                  He bared his teeth when Xavier took a swing at Erik, screaming something at him. And Erik looked helpless. Nearly ruining the moment, the shrill howl of an alarm rose through the air. As if Juniper were crying out in its death throes. Lazily looking over his shoulder, Shaw smiled. Any remaining staff from the jail came pouring out in a dead panic. They stampeded past their battle-worn peers in droves, some bloody and others pale with fear. The impressive mutant with the metal claws herded the humans back until he stood with a line of the mutant guards.

                  Slipping out through the doors, streaming like a toxic river, appeared the inmates. Emma in her pristine white dress led them, and what looked exactly like the human Captain strode confidently at her side. Behind them the mutants were all grimly smiling, gnashing their teeth like animals as they filed out. Soon the grass was covered with them, standing in a thrumming mass of able bodies.

                  Juggernaut and Sinister appeared, the former looking around in confusion while Sinister looked impatient. His crimson eyes found Lehnsherr and Xavier, the counselor stumbling over the ground as the metal-bender tried to remain gentle while he held him back. There was a man Sinister didn’t recognize walking towards them. He barely spared the collection of staff a glance before he stopped in front of the inmates. The beautiful woman in white walked over to him, and the creature wearing the Captain’s skin followed. At their backs the real Captain gave a strangled cry of outrage when the mutant waved mockingly, her skin bleeding back into blue. It was the imposter who had opened the locks on their doors, who had convinced the guards inside to release the inmates because of ‘an emergency’. It was also this chameleon that had then broken the necks of guards who had questioned her. And after that the lady in white sent them all a message. The message of this man, apparently: freedom, superiority, justice.

                  “I am Sebastian Shaw, and this,” Shaw began, voice ringing out clear as a bell, “is a revolution, my friends-“ An animal scream, awful and desperate, interrupted him. He paused, frowning.

                  In that moment both Moira and Logan dashed forward, clashing almost immediately with the sleek blue mutant. Yellow eyes flared with annoyance as her fist landed soundly against Logan’s face, pivoting in a beautiful arc to pistol-whip the Captain with her own gun.

                  Emma sighed irritably and crumpled the two of them with a mental twitch, arching a brow at Mystique’s nod. Some of the others rushed forward to pull Wolverine and the human girl back, but Emma’s attention was split as another scream echoed across the grass.

                  The red mutant was writhing on the ground, an unearthly sound of agony rushing out of his mouth. Darwin had fallen away from him, scrambling back in horror. Lehnsherr was kneeling next to him and Darwin noticed with alarm that the inmate was bleeding out of his eyes. “Len-” he started, eyes snapping back as the mutant on the ground arched off the ground so high that he was sure his back would snap. Lehnsherr shoved past him, barreling towards to the mutant – but no, he was going past him, shouting at… Darwin leapt to his feet. Charles. Blue eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, skin white as a sheet. He was staring at the red mutant, and Darwin’s breath was swept clean out of him when he realized that Charles was doing it; _he_ was the one making the mutant scream.

                  Erik charged him, yelling his name. He slammed into the telepath, tackling him to the ground. Azazel went deathly still in the aftermath. His eyes still stung where insane pressure had pushed blood through them, controlled by Charles. A terrified, angry Charles.

  1.                   “No…. No…. No. No. NO NO NO NONONONO-” Charles        pleaded hysterically. He felt the tiny blade of agony he pressed to Erik’s temple, felt the pain open like a swollen wound. It flowed over him, drenching him and he pushed it harder until his ears were filled with unending howls of monumental pain. Every searing rip he felt as a hauntingly close echo, punching into him. But there wasn’t a way to lessen it. There wasn’t a way to stop. He propelled the pain outwards, finding two other minds – the red mutant and Darwin - and taking hold. More pain, more cries. They were distant, useless. Somewhere inside Charles recognized the image of shoving scissor blades into his own hand and twisting.



 

…

 

                  Sugar. Powdered and sickly sweet as it soaked into the blood on him. Then Charles felt everything gone, taken. He stared at his hands. They were pristine. He licked his lips; they soft, warm. White. White, everywhere. He took a shuddering breath.

                  “Emma.”

                  “What in the world has happened to you, sugar?”

                  “I died again,” he whispered.

                  She hummed. “Where did you go this time?”

                  “Erik,” he breathed, gazing at her frosted nails. “He wanted me to come in.”

                  Something distantly akin to pity was carefully doused in her expression, smoothed over like the sand in a Zen garden. “You got terribly lost, Charles.”

                  “I know,” he hushed, tears gliding down his cheeks.

                  Emma’s breath was cold and thin as it brushed his forehead. Her lips were a snowflake kiss. “Do you know what you’ve done, Charles?”

                  “He let me in,” he argued, voice cracking. “Just to help.”

                  “You cast yourself out,” she soothed, smoothing her hand down his shoulders. Somewhere she remembered his fear and the first time they’d been like this, together. How deep he’d sunk into himself. This time, however, Charles Xavier had left himself entirely behind and had descended into Erik Lehnsherr. “Do you know why it hurts so much?”

                  It did. It hurt. He could feel all of it pressing against the dam he didn’t even know he’d built. The others had thought he was in shock, but he’d never even made it that far. Charles had never even allowed it. Gasping when Emma ran her strong fingers through his hair, Charles showed her the sphere, showed her the shelter Erik had offered. And the desperation that had propelled him deep into that shelter, deep enough that he’d completely separated from himself and the aftermath. The damage of Mojo’s attack had run so deep that he’d seated himself in Erik’s consciousness and suddenly his own well being, his identity, his _self_ , had all been blurred and smeared into obscurity.

                  He laughed, the pitch high and drifting close to the edge where he feared his sanity had gone over. “And I thought I was doing well, I thought I was being strong. I thought I was fine.”

                  Emma caught his face in her hands. “No one blames you, sugar. You built somewhere else to go.” As her words wove around him in a familiar dance, she reached inside of him and felt the thick wall behind which lay the horror and the crippling shock Charles had altogether erased, not to be acknowledged. She caught some anger, sharp and uncontrolled; an image of the human captain, then directly following was a wash of shame as he clamped down with that magnificent control. Erik was the conduit the clever little telepath had used. Her lips quirked when she skimmed past the heat of lust and sex, almost feeling sorry for the both of them. Erik a greedy, swooning Romeo and Charles his horribly damaged Juliet offering him a gift founded on desperation and confusion. And Charles hadn’t even been aware, not on the actual level. He allowed himself to be consumed by Erik in an effort to stop the shock – the same shock that had been threaded into his mind at the Academy. “You poor broken thing. You really thought if you smiled hard enough the world would just forget what you’d been through? You can’t sweep trauma under the rug, Charles.”

                  “It was a lie,” he sobbed, chest feeling constricted. He scrambled to grab Emma as she drew away. “No, don’t leave. Emma. I can’t do this. I thought I could hide from it. Not again. You don’t know. You don’t know what he did.”

                  She frowned. A knit of annoyance marred her brow. Lip curling in distaste, she slapped his hand away when he reached for her. “By some accounts, Charles, you did this to yourself.”

                  And as she turned Charles caught the barest whisper of a confession. Not meant to be heard, not meant to be shared.

                  _It shouldn’t have been Mojo in the first place, sugar. It should have been_ **you**.

 

…

 

                  The woman in white staggered. Sinister’s eyes narrowed. He knew very well the two telepath’s had just been in some sort of mental aside. To the outer world they just stared at each other: Xavier on his knees and the woman standing over him. But even Sinister felt it when some powerful pulse came from Xavier. Like the brief tremor proceeding an earthquake. Sinister looked over at the Juniper staff. The humans had all fallen into some telepathic-induced coma when the woman in white left. Scurrying around like a monstrous rodent, the doctor was administering first aid as best as he could under current circumstances. The remaining mutants were very still. And the inmates as well all sustained a dead silence. In front of them Sebastian Shaw stood unyielding, arms crossed. Sinister was glad the man could appreciate the danger posed by an unstable mutant. Before the woman took him under they’d all felt the wave of _nauseaterrorragehelplessness_ that he’d emanated as if by mental loudspeaker.

                  Xavier was on his feet now, Sinister noted. The woman’s iron control slipped and Xavier took a definite step forward, lips drawn back over his teeth. Sinister could feel the faint echo from their exchange, and he blanched at the black hate delivering Xavier’s words.

                  _YOU DID THIS YOU DID THIS YOU DID THIS._

He flinched when the woman abruptly shifted into a different form, the echoes silenced. Sinister glanced over as Shaw clenched his fists. So this was not a common occurrence. Cause for alarm. Eyeing the shore, Sinister wondered exactly how hard it would be to attempt the swim to the mainland with no more razor wire polluting the waters.

                  “No more playing, sugar,” she said smoothly. “You know you can’t touch me now.”

                  “That doesn’t mean I can’t stop you,” he hissed.

                  Even Sinister could feel the frenzied force of Xavier’s words. And something else. Some other shift of intense mental strain. He prodded very gently, and physically wheeled backwards before bumping into Juggernaut. “My god,” he murmured, blinking away the spots dancing at the edge of his vision. In that instant of contact Sinister gleaned that Xavier was fighting something, fighting to keep his head above water so black and thick that Sinister was nearly pulled into it, too. By the look of it, the lady in white was well aware of the precarious balance Xavier was keeping and intended to make him fall.

                  “You’ve been lying an awful lot lately,” Emma goaded quietly, sauntering around the other telepath, untouchable now that she was in diamond form. “You lied when you told Erik you were fine. You lied when you wanted forgiveness from the sniveling human captain, and you lied when you whored yourself out on the rooftop.” Her smile cut like broken glass. “You’re not even yourself. You can’t handle being yourself, you’ve shut him out entirely.”

                  “Emma, stop it,” he ordered, faltering beneath the truth in her words. Erik’s gaze ate at him; he could feel the roiling conflict clouding the air.

                  “You honestly think that it was _you_ walking around; you talking, sticking your hand down your pants?” The foul words rolled like honey off her tongue. “That was Erik.” Her glittering eyes cut to the metal-bender. “Sugar, do you know what a changeling is?”

                  Haunting tales from his childhood, the lost tiny goblins that would steal into the night to take children away, and leave an abomination in their place. He furrowed his brows and Emma laughed, tinkling and musical.

                  Charles’ voice was a mere husk, sweat beading over his brow as the pressure built inside of him, “Erik, no. That’s not what this is.”

                  “He stole you, sugar,” Emma cooed. “He carved himself out like a Halloween pumpkin, and you’re the little candle he put inside to make him glow.”

                  Sinister stood behind Juggernaut, flinching at the mental flares flying outwards with increasing force from Charles. The dam was breaking. He could feel it bending underneath all the stress. Nothing would help them then.

                  “You know,” she mused, cocking her hips flirtatiously, “I never bothered to find out what Mojo was so obsessed with. My range has limits, you know. I didn’t want to strain myself.” Her eyes flickered. “All I needed was his rage; to turn up the volume a bit.” She uttered a biting bark of laughter and threw out her hands. “It didn’t even occur to me when I heard him think about ‘the dear little counselor’.”

                  Charles looked ill. “So then it’s true,” he whispered.

                  “You don’t know the half of it,” she chuckled. “If only you knew how badly he wanted it, sugar. Like a dog. Maybe you should’ve just let him take it. Maybe fighting back is what gets you into so much trouble-” Sparks flew with an ear-splitting scrape as a huge metal beam went careening into her, knocking her to the ground. Snarling, she shoved it off and found Erik standing in front of Charles. “What is this?” Emma demanded, voice impossibly measured and cold. “You don’t like hearing about another dog panting after your bitch?” Her teeth were startlingly sharp in diamond form, and she showed them all in a wolfish smile. This side of Emma was rarely ever seen, and all who had ever lived to remember it would wish it rarer still.

                  “My god,” Charles moaned, collapsing. “Oh my god!” He clawed at the ground, screaming through gritted teeth. He ignored the sickening wave of agony as he scratched with his broken arm, or the sting of his nails splitting on the rocks beneath the grass. It was all on him now; the wall had broken. The black water was filling his lungs.

                  “Charles,” Erik yelled, eyes widening when he heard the snap of a finger breaking as Charles stabbed into the rocky ground. “Charles!” But Emma stepped in front of him, barring his way.

                  “Leave him,” she hissed, the sound nearly a whistle. “He needs this.”

                  “He’ll kill himself,” he shouted, trying to shove past her, but she wrapped her fingers around his throat.

                  “You don’t even know, you imbecile.” Tossing Erik aside, she barely glanced back as the black guard who fought Azazel ran to Charles. “That useless clown, Mojo, was the best we could do because we didn’t have the best instead.” Erik’s face was turning puce under her grip and she smirked. “Do you remember that promising student Sebastian would reminisce about? That rising star he’d been so taken with?” The pale green eyes were blank. “Well, _I_ remember. One Charles Xavier, an especially gifted telepath with the potential to be a walking weapon.” Throwing him down with disgust, she slammed a foot into his windpipe and held it there. “But he was too soft, too weak. He didn’t have the rage.” She ran her eyes over Erik as if laying him bare. “So we tried to put it in him-”

                  “Not like I saw in you,” Shaw interrupted, glancing down tenderly at Erik. “Not like the beautiful anger in you.” Then he was looking past them at Charles, expression lightly amused despite the circumstances. “Emma, we need to wrap this little party up. We can save story time for later.”

                  “Don’t kill the humans,” Erik rasped, shoving at Emma’s leg. “Don’t!”

                  “And why in the world would I not?” he asked, honestly confused. “Was that not a clear part of this venture? I was hoping we’d let our newly freed brethren display their power. Give them a little morale boost with the slaughter.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckled. “The mutant traitors do seem intent on protecting the humans, though.”

                  “It might drag out,” Emma added flippantly, letting Erik up. “We don’t have the time.”

                  “Fine, fine,” Shaw sighed. “Erik-” the man’s head snapped up and Shaw saw concern written all over his features. Pursing his lips, he addressed Emma, “My dear, could you ready our little telepath for departure. He’s being awfully fussy.”

                  Snorting, Emma strode over to Charles and stood over him for just a moment, head tilted as if in thought before she brought one solid arm down on the back of his head. The guard launched himself at her, but Shaw was right there, absorbing the blow.

                  Their eyes clashed. Shaw smiled. “I like you.”

                  “Sorry, man, the feeling is definitely not mutual.”

                  “Your ability is very impressive,” he conceded, “But I don’t have the time. Either you go back with the rest of the traitors, or you die right here.”

                  Darwin squared his shoulders and opened his mouth-

                  “Darwin,” Erik croaked. He caught the guard’s dark eyes and held them. After a moment Darwin’s face fell into an unreadable expression and he withdrew. Erik followed him with his gaze all the way back to the group of mutant staff members, guarded by the remaining Brotherhood. The scruffy redhead threw his arms around Darwin and Erik almost smiled.

                  “You know who the most valuable are,” Shaw said to Erik, “Get them in the sub. The rest can get to shore on the boat we – ah, liberated on the way here.”

                  “And the humans?”

                  “The humans and the traitors can sit pretty until the government pigs come fetch them,” the mutant drawled.

                  They worked quickly while Charles lay unconscious on the ground. Erik walked through the inmates and motioned to those he’d observed during his stay, pausing to trade a tight smile with Sinister. A crooked line of them filed off toward the submarine. The rest stood expectantly while Emma delivered more mass messaging to them. Erik went to look for the boat Shaw had mentioned. On his way to the mouth of the tiny port he noticed Mystique was sitting next to Charles, stroking his hair. He hesitated only a moment, eyes narrowing when she lifted him into her arms and began walking towards to sub.

                  Tied to the dock was a tugboat, worn and somehow familiar. Erik squinted at it. A captain’s hat lay on the deck, and he stubbornly ignored the bloodstains. He took what cargo wasn’t necessary and threw it over the edge. Various pieces of bolted furniture, a woolen blanket that smelled like the sea. He wavered when he saw a book lying dog-eared and tattered on the floor. He picked it up and frowned when he noticed the aged stamp half smudged away, able to make out the ink reading ‘library’ that matched the marks on the books that had lived in the Sanctuary. He put it back down, glancing back one more time at the bloody captain’s hat before signaling to the inmates to begin their descent.

                  They left the loosed inmates information on how to contact them. Erik thought briefly of warning the inhabitants of the mainland, a place Charles had spoken so fondly of. He watched them sail off, the _chug chug_ of the boat somehow cheerier without the _twang_ of wire beneath the water. When he got back to the top of the cliff, Erik realized that there was one last figure, looking lost and sad.

                  “Jug,” he called. “Why didn’t you board with the others?”

                  “I’m gonna tell you now,” Juggernaut said, “I want to pinch all your heads until your eyes pop.”

                  Erik took a step back.

                  “But the counselor wouldn’t want me to,” he mumbled quietly. “And I won’t hit a lady, even one like that white dame who talked inside our heads.”

                  “So what are you going to do?” he asked cautiously. There was no way he could fight Juggernaut and win.

                  “I’m going to stay with Juniper,” he decided. “She’s been real good to me.” He trailed off. “I’m angry at you, Lehnsherr. But I know you’ll look out for the counselor. He’s hurt bad, I know that. He’s hurt too badly to stay here anymore.” Ambling towards the jail, he called over his shoulder. “Maybe next time I _will_ punch you.”

                  Erik wiped at the crusty blood trailing from his eyes and laughed bitterly. “Only if you promise not to hold back when you do.”

 


	13. Finem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But in the end, isn’t the pain worth it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope people are still reading this. Real life has exceptionally bad timing. orz

            They’d been at sea for hours, deep enough that the churning water was holding them like a paper figure in its grip. But the chilling vastness outside meant nothing to Charles. His world had narrowed to a single pair of yellow eyes. The ridge of his lips still tingled after she’d pressed a cool blue finger to them, silencing the hoarse whisper that tried to shape her name. Now he kept still, drawn and hollow, eyes fever-bright. She hummed softly to him, something he remembered only from when they were children together. Careful not to make a sound should she be some kind of projected mirage, he mouthed the words. _Two little children_ \- he smiled at the memory of her insistence that the pair be a girl and boy; tradition be damned.

            _Climb up here Jill, we'll soon be flying… I can go just as fast with two..._

“I can hear you,” she murmured, smoothing back damp bangs from Charles’ forehead. His brows knit and she tapped the side of her head.

            _I have to resort to this_ , he said. _My throat is..._ He swallowed and winced.

“You were screaming,” she informed him softly, “You tired yourself out.”

            _Screaming_ , he wondered, closing his eyes against the cool press of her hand. _Why would I be screaming_? Turning his face into Raven’s stomach, he inhaled her scent. After a moment he frowned, eyes popping back open to gaze at the stretch of blue flesh. And under the pillow supporting his head was more bare skin. Flinching away from his sister, he gasped at the pulse of agony that lanced through his temples. The pain grew worse, artificial light cutting into his eyes as he cast them around. Not Westchester, not Oxford. Scrambling to his knees, Charles pressed his palm into an eye. He became aware of pain in his arm, pain in his fingers. A cut lip. Raven. No. Steadying himself against the floor, he slowly took in the sight of his sister. No, not Raven.

            _Mystique_. The name coiled venomously across his mind and Charles tried to catch his breath. It had been years since he’d seen her. Years since she’d left. He hadn’t known where she’d gone or whom she was with; only sporadic letters assuring him of her safety that faded into memory. _How can you be here?_ Though ‘here’ wasn’t even a concept Charles could hope to approach at the moment. Confusion drenched him, leaving him shivering under ignorance. _Did you kidnap me?_

            She looked pained. “Do you even know where you are, Charles?”

            _No_. Mystique slid to her knees beside him, rubbing his back. He was staring at the tight bandage on his arm and swollen state of his fingers. Eyes narrowed as he tried to find the clues. His mind was a room bound in white linen, hiding the shapes of the answers he sought. Someone had been there; someone had been in his mind. The linen was crisp and white. Startlingly white.

            “Emma,” he murmured, choking on ragged coughs as his throat contracted.

            “She fixed your headache,” she said, careful not to touch him. It had been nice to hold him again, after so long. “Calm down or you’ll undo everything.”

            “I’d like to undo it,” he rasped, massaging his throat with his good hand while with the other he touched his temple. Mystique’s brilliant yellow eyes softened at the familiar motion, though Charles avoided her face. He needed to focus on stripping the linen away to reveal his recent memory piece by piece. The pain brought by using his broken arm grounded him.

            Part of her knew that she should somehow keep Charles from remembering. At the same time, Mystique respected Charles’ right to his own memory. It hadn’t been her choice to let Emma tamper with him, but there was little she could do when her brother had been projecting mangled terror and setting them all on edge. Now she watched him, prepared to subdue him if needed. Her eyes flicked down to his chest, rising and falling erratically. The fingers at his temple shook, still puffy and purple with bruising. “Charles,” she whispered.

            He couldn’t reach it. The last piece of the puzzle. Juniper was done. But they were safe. The Captain, Logan, Darwin, and the others. Safe. He knew why his arm was broken: Mojo. But he didn’t remember why his fingers were broken; the throbbing was distracting. Why was Juniper…? Emma. And Mystique was here. There had been whirlwinds. A helmet. Someone with a helmet. He winced, dropping his hand. Mystique’s disquieting presence drew his attention. Sitting there with her was like being in a dark room and seeing only the outline of a familiar face. “It’s going to hit me any second,” he murmured, feeling unbalanced. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            She tensed. “Why would you hurt me, Charles?” she asked quietly.

            “I’m so angry,” he whispered. “Rav-… I’m not-”

            Mystique’s eyes flashed as his expression fell slack. Alarms were going off. The color of his eyes visibly darkened. His broken fingers twitched. Something told her he already managed to uncover the hidden memories; Emma hadn’t that much time to spare.

            _Did you know_?

            Hit with acid, burning into her; she flinched away. “Charles,” she barked, gasping as the image of Emma – distorted in Charles’ projections – leaked black poison out a bow-shaped mouth. The stains spread down her body in inky swirls. Mystique’s eyes snapped to Charles’ face before she viciously shook her head, teeth bared in ghost-pain as the image of Emma twisted and coiled in on itself like a snake. “Stop,” she hissed. “Charles!” Again his question lashed out at her, and she screamed, “NO, I didn’t!” Like fading echoes, Charles paled from her mind. His drawn face was haunted, red-rimmed eyes glassy. He recoiled when she reached for him. “I didn’t know you were even there,” she whispered urgently. “Charles, none of us even knew you were there. It was just a recruitment ground. That’s all.”

_And Erik?_

            Mystique was unnerved by the abrupt calm that descended over him. Swallowing down a dry throat, she pointedly did _not_ look towards the security alarm mere feet away from her. “What about him?”

_Did he know?_

            Vehemently she shook her head. “Not a thing,” she assured him. “Not a thing; he didn’t know. _None_ of us knew, Charles. What Emma said; that could’ve meant anyth-”

            _I’m going to put you to sleep now, Raven_.

            Her eyes widened with fright before going flat, slipping shut as she slumped over.

            There could have been blood on his hands for the instantaneous upsurge of shame and nausea that rocked his system, heeded by deep disgust. Curling his arms over his head, Charles breathed deeply in his tiny space of darkness. Raven’s body curved along his knees, the burnt umber of her hair sleek and shining. Shutting his eyes against the sight of her, Charles found himself alone facing his current circumstances and his recent revelation. The deeper he delved, hearing Emma’s voice along with echoes of the past, the harder it became to breathe. He was gasping by the time he raised his head back into the light, mouth thrown wide as he tried to stay afloat.

            It felt like hands were covering his face, pushing him down. Hands from the Academy, Mojo, Emma, Shaw… Erik.

            “No,” he hissed, coughing violently. Tears streamed down his face as he fought for breath. The hands were over his mouth, over his eyes. Charles cried out, choked off by more coughs that racked his body. He keened, thrashing underneath the stifling touches of so many hands, imprinted on him, branded into him. _Stopstopstopstopstop-_

With fingers tearing at his hair Charles forced every sensation out of him, shutting down his hearing, his sight, the sense of touch. He encased himself in a cocoon of utter numbness while leaving just enough sense to feel the lining of his physical consciousness. At another time, if asked, Charles might describe this state of being as what some hope to achieve in meditation. Absolute disconnection, dissolving into an oneness of being so dense that the sense of self blended into an overwhelming breadth of nothingness. He hung there for minutes, suspended without feeling until very slowly Charles began to unfurl. Carefully he opened his sense of self, only slightly. Then, like cats stealing into a house out of the dark night, bits and pieces of memory returned. Only select glimmers of awareness were allowed, and what Charles deemed secrets were cautiously thrown over the vast wall holding back the sea of fear and rage that loomed over his present mind.

            Neatly editing his own mind, Charles opened his eyes feeling much calmer. Distantly he was _aware_ , though it was a shadow of the onslaught he’d faced hours ago at Juniper. But even that awareness was broken down, compartmentalized until he had a clean line of purpose leading him out of the small medical room. Tightly controlled, he wore it like an IV, bleeding poison into him slowly. No more hiding.

            Standing on only slightly unsteady feet, Charles looked down at Raven as his skin smarted under the salty pluck of drying tears. He remembered an oath he’d taken. It had been raining outside the tall windows at the Xavier Estate, where he and Raven had grown up together. He’d sworn to her he’d never enter her mind.

            The shards of broken promises didn’t leave a mark as he tread over them.

 

…

 

            Erik hesitated just inside the door of the control room. Azazel was crouched over the consul muttering under his breath in Russian. There was a bandage around his head, though Erik wondered at the effectiveness for an entirely internal, and furthermore a _mental_ , wound. Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention from Azazel to Emma. She was leaning nonchalantly against the ladder leading topside. The nail file she wielded with casual grace was razor sharp. It flashed dangerously in the sub’s tinny blue lights. “You said... you asked if I knew what a changeling was.” When Emma opened her mouth he held up a hand, “In _very_ simple English please.”

            She rolled her eyes, “You’ve heard of mental patients who become other people.” Her expression was bored as she inspected her nails. They gleamed.

            “Multiple personalities?” Shifting further into the room, Erik crossed his arms and mirrored her casual lean. “As a result of trauma.” Suddenly he felt very cold. “You mean that Charles is-”

            Smirking, Emma shook her head. “He’s too old for something like that to happen,” she waved him off, “But I want you to understand the mental parameters.” Efficiently finishing the slight point to her ring finger, she tucked the nail file away and walked out the room past Erik. It was easy enough to ignore the turmoil of Erik’s mind, especially when Emma was so intimately familiar with it. Her lips quirked as she motioned for him to sit down on one of the white leather couches.

            Books on war tactics, genealogy, geography, and anything Sebastian thought useful lined the walls of the den. He and the others were down with the new recruits, leaving her with Erik. Sebastian had mentioned the metal-bender would be asking questions. It greatly amused Emma that apparently Erik had taken a shine to dear sweet Charles Xavier. Then again the orphaned and the damaged often sought each other out unknowingly. Crossing her legs elegantly, she waited until Erik resumed his sulk, hands clasped in his lap like a child waiting for bad news. Well, the news could be worse.

            Flipping her hair back over her shoulder Emma began, “It’s a defense mechanism. When something traumatizing happens that someone can’t mentally process the mind can create a whole other personality that _can_ handle the trauma.” The unease Erik was exuding thickened.

            “What happened to him?” he bit out, chest clenching at the thought that someone could hurt Charles enough to chase him out of himself. He knew there was something there, something at the Academy. Mojo. What Mojo had said; they’d raped him-

            “After the incident at the Academy-” she pushed the knowledge into Erik’s mind and he paled, a hand jerking into a fist- “I took Charles in and began to teach him defense. He pushed aside the part that had been hurt and focused on rebuilding another self by taking cues from me, coping with what I gave him. He was relearning how to function as a person.”

            As Emma spoke Erik had to shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see her unaffected expression, not while his stomach twisted into painful knots. Rage beat beneath his brow, so strong that Erik had to focus on keeping his breathing under control. Emma had gone silent; he could feel the cautious brush of her mind. “I don’t suppose you know the whereabouts of his attackers,” he growled.

            “No, sugar,” she soothed, “The only thing that matters is that they hated our kind. You want payback?” She touched his chin and blue-green eyes opened to glare. Lowering her lashes demurely, Emma purred, “Then we just keep doing what we’ve been doing. Juniper was a great success. We can finally move on to the next phase.”

            Beneath him the leather of the couch creaked as he turned to fully face the telepath, worry etched across his face. “We have to wait. Charles needs to recover.”

            “Of course he does,” she lied smoothly. “He’ll have time.” Relief washed over Erik’s face and Emma barely caught herself before scoffing. She’d never seen him like this. He’d gone soft. Though if anyone could thaw a heart of ice it was Charles Xavier.

            “When you were training him, when he was empty,” he wondered aloud, “You were giving him nothing but... the means for violence.” Something didn’t sit right. “Charles is too much of a pacifist to-”

            “He couldn’t sustain it,” she sighed, frustrated with the memory. “He regressed into a shadow of himself, more skittish than before, but certainly with a better defense. That comforted the Charles who had been hurt and made him believe he could protect himself; that it was safe to come back. He’d never intended to use it for what it was supposed to be; a weapon.”

            Her tone was bitter, lip curling in distaste. “He never would have,” he argued, catching the twitch in her brow. Frowning, Erik rubbed at the back of his neck. He needed a shower. “Twice at Juniper he used it. Certainly did the job.”

            Curling her manicured fingers over the slender stretch of her thigh, she smiled. “He has it in him, he just won’t accept it.”

            An unopened bottle of fine vodka – Shaw must have been visiting the Russians - sat chilling in a cooler. He floated it closer and uncapped the bottle. Emma’s words sunk in. “You _wanted_ him to use it as a weapon?”

            “For a while,” she paused, nodding as she accepted a glass from him. She watched the clear liquid slide smoothly into the glass. “The anger he had was incredible. He was an animal.”

            Resealing the bottle with the barest flick of his power, Erik swirled the liquid around before dropping it back in one gulp. Burning, deep and hollow, spread down his chest and he hissed. Emma sipped hers daintily, ice blue eyes fixed on him. He set his glass aside. “I can imagine.” Unfortunately. The sound of Charles breaking his own fingers rang in his memory. An expression of fury and betrayal and fear that made his gut turn, when Charles had looked at him, had _hurt_ him. “Personally I prefer him the way he usually is.”

            Smirking, Emma tapped her pinky against the side of her glass. “You have no idea how he ‘usually’ is, Erik.” _Really, Charles Xavier had been a prime candidate_ - __

Erik barely caught the glass as it slipped from Emma’s hands. Her eyes had flown wide then narrowed dangerously. When she shifted into diamond form Erik stood up in alarm.

            Then he felt it. Like a storm gathering on the horizon, moving closer. Reaching out to touch the metal vibrating underneath unexpected footsteps, Erik realized that it was Charles. His gate was off, feet falling too hard against the floor. Erik detected a limp and immediately started forward, coming up short when Charles appeared in the doorway. Erik stepped back. He stared at the telepath, Emma’s eerie whistling breath the only sound beyond the pressurized pulse of the ocean.

            Charles eyes looked nearly electric; set in a bone white face marked only with the faint smudge of bruises and the rusty cut on his lip. Dark circles weighed down his eyes, gaunt and awful. His fingers had swelled into useless bloat, his arm still bound in refreshed bandages. Tousled brown hair stood up in cowlicks, and he was wearing the clothes Mystique had found for him: a pair of cotton drawstring pants and one of Erik’s old thermal shirts. One sleeve had bunched up around the bandage, the other falling down over his remaining good hand. Bare feet peeked out from threadbare pant legs, and in some disturbing way Charles looked like a child who had just woken from a long, terrible sleep.

            “Well, sugar,” Emma purred dangerously, “Don’t you just look _awful_.”

            “Did you ever have even a second of remorse, Emma,” Charles rasped, good hand going to massage his throat. “Just a moment to prove that you might not be a monster.”

            “We’re all monsters,” she hissed, fingers clacking together into fists.

            “That’s where you’re wrong.” Charles stood straighter, eyes shining hotly. Erik was looking between the telepaths, but Charles didn’t even see him. He only had eyes for Emma and her beautiful diamond shell that he intended to crack. “I never was. Despite your best efforts, Emma,” he spat. “I never was one.”

            She hummed, sauntering in a slow circle as he edged further into the den. “Not every monster shows their teeth all the time.”

            “Only when their master calls them?” he replied warily, swaying. He ached, but the limited consciousness of his physical body didn’t matter. Charles smoothed over the section of his mind that registered pain and switched it off.

            It was like watching a puppet on a string. Charles stood straighter and his face melted into an alien peace, though Erik could still see the lines of tension along his shoulders. He surmised what the telepath had done and gritted his teeth. Pain let you know you were still alive. Stepping into Charles’ line of sight, he told him firmly, “You need to lie down. You haven’t recovered-”

            “Erik,” he bit out, swallowing down his stinging throat.

            Reaching for the other man, Erik pushed all of the warmth and worry he felt outwards, hoping that Charles could feel it.

            “I know you’re sincere Erik,” he said sadly, walking forward to slide his hand along the mutant’s stubbly cheek. “I wish… there was a way.” His bit his lip, teeth sinking down hard enough to reopen the cut. He barely felt it. “The edge you kept me from… in that sphere of metal.” Running his thumb along Erik’s sharp cheekbone, Charles’ eyes flicked down to the man’s thin lips, just a shade darker than his skin. “I’ve fallen over it.”

            _Erik, step away from him. Now._

            “There’s no need for that, Emma,” Charles sneered, hand dropping away from Erik. “I’d never hurt him. Though it’s good to know you still find him useful. Small comforts.”

            “What tune are we dancing to this time, Charles?” she snapped, now pacing back and forth in front of them like a restless beast.

            “You must be scared, Emma,” he pointed out darkly.

            “Why would I be scared of you?” she laughed, the sound tinkling and empty. “You’re a pretty porcelain doll, sugar. But now there are too many cracks and you can’t be played with any more.” Her eyes darted to Erik before zeroing back in on Charles. “Shaw wants you alive, Charles. But a lady has the right to defend herself.”’

            “Do you have any shame for what you’ve done?” he asked with deceptive calm. “How many lives you’ve knowingly manipulated and _ruined_ for your little game.”

            “Shut _up_ ,” she barked, “You stupid little coward. This isn’t a game. This is vengeance. I am a soldier. You were collateral damage.”

            _No, Emma,_ he blared, stepping forward, _I was a pawn, just as Erik is a pawn. There_ is _no war but the one you and Shaw seem to be fabricating._

            Erik heard Charles clear as a brass horn. Emma faltered, her glittering teeth bared aggressively.

            “Charles,” he interjected, “How can you say there’s no war?” His chest pinched as his memories flashed to bloodshed, oceans of it, and the regret he felt washed out by the fury. “I can tell you what they were going to do to me, Charles. What they were intending to do to all mutants eventually.”

            Slowly Charles turned to fix his eyes on Erik. The metal-bender was tense, and the continuous press of his care and concern lapped at Charles’ consciousness like waves on a shore. His heart broke under the burden of what had to be done. The body bag carrying Mojo’s remains flashed through his mind, but what he knew know was so much worse than that. He couldn’t let this go on. The screaming, spitting rage roared inside of him and he could feel himself weakening under its onslaught. And he didn’t know what would happen. He had no idea what lay behind the wall that held the dark waters at bay.

            “Did you know that in some countries parents maim their children?” He ignored Erik’s wild look of confusion, gaze sliding back over to Emma. “They know that if they do so their child will earn more money begging on the streets.”

            “Charles-” Erik pleaded, terrified that the telepath had gone mad. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to knock him out, and he didn’t trust Emma to stop after Charles was unconscious.

            “You think I can’t crack your pretty shell, Emma,” Charles went on, and there were tears glistening in his eyes. “But I can.”

            Emma snarled. _Try it_.

            Her fingers flashed like claws and Erik fell back, clutching his head. The room bent; pressure crushing down amidst the rushing in his head, like the wings of thousands of birds beating in time. Charles ran forward, and Emma took a heavy swing at him. Her arm connected with his shoulder and even Erik could feel the pop of bone. But Charles didn’t scream; his expression was impassive. She swung again, this time her sharp knuckles catching him on the jaw, slicing along his face to send him crashing to the floor. Impossibly he slammed his good hand down to keep himself upright, raising his head and opening his mouth in a terrible yell. Emma roared in return, her teeth like fangs as she staggered. Blood sheeted the side of Charles’ face but he was able to stand, raising his fingers to his temple, his teeth grit in animalistic ferocity.

            If he’d hit Mojo and Sinister with a punch, than he hit Emma with a battering ram. He was a body of spikes smashing through, ripping, slashing, and tearing. He hurt her; he milked the pain and amplified it. Charles found more cracks and struck them soundly, spreading the damage. Her defense crumbled as the wall within his mind began to break and let the oily black mass through to burn away at her like acid. Carefully listening, he found stray thoughts, the pathetic attempts to hide away precious memories. Charles _pushed_ and in a neat split of white, he’d broken the diamond defense.

            Emma was screaming, her voice a ringing shriek of lightning sound and Erik was sure his ears were bleeding. Then a crack appeared right down the center of her face and the terror and the anger that struck her was something Erik didn’t think he would ever forget.

            A crystal sheen of dust floated off her body as she slipped back from diamond form. A perfect wet line of red split her noble brow and Charles dropped to his knees beside her, panting. His broken arm hung useless, the shoulder obviously dislocated as blood dripped from his chin. Charles stared down at Emma Frost and found himself viciously wiping away tears with his only good hand, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could be unforgiving. He new what she had done, what strings she’d pulled like a sadistic puppeteer. But then Charles knew that Emma, in the end, was just another pawn.

            _Erik._

            The whisper cooled his mind, gently dusting away the ringing in his ears.

            _Erik, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry_.

            He watched Charles reach out and press his palm to Emma’s forehead. The blood smeared beneath his hand and she struggled briefly, pupils shrunken and sinking in the cold icy blue of her eyes.

            Then it came pouring out of her. Everything. Erik gasped as his mind was assaulted with a dizzying array of sensations, emotions… secrets. He saw the Academy, he saw Charles. And somehow he knew in that moment of Charles’ _potential_ , his power. He felt second-hand disgust at the young man’s quiet ways, how he went on meekly getting perfect grades and staying out of the way. And he saw the suspicion and fear in Charles’ roommate, and the roommate’s friends. Erik knew that he was in Emma, reaching into their minds and twisting that suspicion into a lethal frenzy. She was driving the young humans to a point of bestial lust and hatred. They were guided like dogs following the scent of blood to Charles. At first Charles tried to argue, even resorting to using his telepathy – Erik felt the bubbling confusion as Charles realized his powers weren’t working. A false imprint of _notstrongenough_ filled the moment and then they were on him, ripping at his clothes like animals, tearing at him. And his voice; not screaming or fighting any longer. Silent. Drenched in terror, shame, and helplessness. Emma had pressed into his mind, _notstrongenough_.

            Tears burned down his face and Erik drove his hands into his hair, tearing at it as he writhed on the ground. Charles still held Emma, his face entirely blank as she twisted and dug her manicured talons deep into his flesh.

            When his attackers finally left him broken on the floor Emma had appeared like an angel from on high, a graceful savior to lift Charles above his trauma. _Teachyoutobestrong_. The promise, the careful promise that led Charles into her clutches, right where she’d put him.

            Next the knowledge, bare and direct, that Emma had entered Mojo’s mind at Juniper and turned his tentative mental state into a single anger-driven force. She wielded his unrefined ability like a sword and cut through the vulnerable minds, using what information Erik – _Erik_ – had provided to her. _Charles should have been in his place_ , was the narrative whisper self-righteous and chastised, _He should have been the one inside_. Disappointment flared briefly, again regret at what a weapon he could’ve been. The potential, but not enough anger. He didn’t want his anger, what a fool. _What a fool_.

            _But Erik_. Erik’s anger, cultured and shaped by Shaw’s vicious upbringing, was mechanical and clean. The determinate purity of his rage was something of beauty. Emma recalled the joy Sebastian felt, tried to cling to it now as Charles forced her thoughts on, dragging her past it until she had to let it go.

            Things shifted. They were alone in a room. Emma and Sebastian. Human faces covered the table, hardened men. Anti-mutant extremists.

            Back in the present Emma had begun to growl low in her throat. Charles smiled sadly. _I’m going to liberate him, Emma._

            Erik knew the faces on the table. He knew them from the red glowing light of hot brands pressing into his skin. The hateful faces staring down at him as they defecated and pissed all over him in the pit where they’d dumped him. Bodies of dead animals were thrown down to rot until he had nowhere to stand but on their corpses. They’d drugged him, given him something so that he couldn’t use his powers. They knew all about him, they knew his ability.

            _Erik_ , Charles’ voice entered his mind. _Someone told them about you_. _Erik, you were_ given _to them._

            And he was thrust back into Emma’s mind, Charles’ touch fading as he was submerged. He saw Emma and Shaw running their fingers over the human faces in the photographs. Their words wandered in and out of clarity.

            _-the strongest we’ve got-_

_-they can be influenced-_

_-I’ll suppress his ability-_

_-we’ll show him why he must hate them-_

_-I’ll release my hold when the time is right-_

_-a massacre-_

_-sent to Juniper-_

_-from the inside-_

Erik threw his head back and bellowed. He hurled himself to the ground and slammed his head into the floor, voice ringing ragged as he pressed his teeth into the carpet and screamed. They dissolved into broken sobs, staining the room. “Stop,” he begged. “Stop stop stop.” He’d seen horrors, lived horrors. Beaten, starved, grown to know pain and anger. And when he was in the possession of the extremist group he thought he’d saw the evils of humanity, he thought he’d saw the reason they all needed to die.

            But they were just marionettes on the end of a string. With sudden sickening clarity he remembered when the drowsiness lifted and his ability was open to him once again. At the time the swiftness of his recovery didn’t matter. All that mattered was the death of his tormentors. His tormentors who seemed to fall into a daze as soon as his powers awoke; who just stood there looking confused as he slaughtered them. Had it even been them? Who had it been? Bile rose in his throat and he choked, flinching and striking out when a hand gripped him. His fist glanced off a hip and he craned his head to see Charles gazing down at him looking utterly exhausted. He swallowed hard and struggled upright, still leaning heavily on his hands. Eyes cast over to Emma, he realized she was breathing shallowly, fingers spasming through the air as if trying to clutch at something. The blood had broken its singular flow down her forehead, separating off into smaller rivulets to stripe her face.

            There was a figure in the doorway, looking down at Emma. Mystique collapsed just inside the door. Her appearance had shifted into a distantly familiar shape of a young blonde woman, her mouth frozen open. Charles looked at her, but made no move to go to her. Though she reached for him.

            With a sulfurous crack of smoke Azazel materialized between Mystique and Charles, his bright blue eyes boring into the telepath. He surveyed the room quickly – sparing Emma only a glance - before he knelt to lift Mystique into his arms. She clung to him, and Charles bowed his head as they disappeared.

            By this time Emma had managed to turn fitfully onto her side and cough into the white carpet. Neither Erik nor Charles paid her any mind, their eyes having locked onto each other. The truth hung between them, distorting everything. It open a yawning chasm swallowing every perception Erik thought he’d known. A blow to the face would’ve been less disorienting and Erik fought to breathe underneath the conflicting instinct to be angry for Charles or angry for himself. He’d seen horrors throughout his life, but to imagine that the man who had raised him – albeit it cruelly – had contrived some of the worst. And that Emma would cleanly edit his thoughts to get him ready for another round of callous manipulation, all to serve the purpose he thought they stood around as equals.             

Pressing his head between his knees, Erik sucked in great lung fulls of air, feeling the effects of shock taking hold of his body. But a hand slid through his hair, cool and firm. Lifting his head, he stared into Charles’ blue eyes. Within them was an incredible sadness, shadowed by something much bigger and darker than Erik had ever seen in the telepath’s expression. He felt the overwhelming urge to cover Charles’ eyes. Instead he took a shuddering breath. Emotions so thick and powerful, laced with gut-wrenching sorrow, poured out of him. They washed against Charles, but he received nothing in return. “Charles, it was never supposed to be this way. I had hoped… you would come with me.” He shook his head. “I had hoped-”

            “And do what exactly, Erik?” he said calmly. “Join your cause? Rally against the evils of humanity?” Shifting away from the other mutant, Charles stared hard at the floor. A low gurgling noise came from Emma and Charles’ gaze snapped to her. “Shaw,” he breathed, his voice a black lick of aggravation that turned the familiar tone into something alien. “He’s coming.”

            Erik had never liked Shaw. But he believed in him. He still, somehow, believed in him. The air shifted and Azazel appeared once more, this time right over Charles, his tail whipping forward in a lethal curve of sharp bone. Erik jerked into action, pulling from the metal around him on instinct, but he was too late.

            Azazel stood frozen, the tip of his barbed tail a breadth away from Charles’ jugular. The telepath stared up into pale blue eyes and cocked his head to the side. “Thank you,” he murmured, “For taking Raven to safety. I see that you care for her.” Slowly his eyes wandered over Azazel’s tense figure. “Fascinating,” he noted distantly, drawing a finger along the spike of his red tail. He closed his eyes and trickled into the minds filling the submarine, feeling their fear and confusion. Then a void moving closer. Shaw. With something akin to the snap of fingers, Charles hushed all the minds he could reach outside the den, feeling each flame doused quietly and cleanly. Azazel’s body went lax and crashed to the floor in a graceless heap. There was the slightest pull of resistance coming from somewhere else, but Charles wasn’t able to follow it as Sebastian Shaw swept into the room. His eyes went first to Emma, lips tightening imperceptibly, before they settled on Charles.

            The angularity of Shaw’s face was so different from Erik’s. Charles could remember beneath the smooth curve of the helmet the protruding cheekbones and snarling mouth. Smoldering under pale eyebrows, his eyes were like twin stones jagged and slicing. At the Academy Charles had both feared and revered him. Following the incident – his rape - Shaw had been an anchor, a confidant. He’d been the first to hold Charles once he could stand touch again, he’d been the one to pull for him and encourage his esteem. What a remarkably robust liar. Though Charles supposed Shaw, somewhere in his shriveled black heart, had cared for Charles. As a huntsman cares for his prized gun. And when the gun refused to fire that regard had shrunk away to a shadowed affect of disappointment.

            Standing there now Sebastian was a pillar of ice, lip curling with disdain. Erik stood up next to Xavier, grasping the telepath’s arm. Sebastian’s eyes fell to watch as Erik’s fingers flexed. What an annoying development. Glancing over at Emma he drawled, “Attacking a woman, Charles? I never knew you had it in you.”

            “ _That_ ,” Charles said in a deceptively measured tone, “Is no woman.”

            “And I suppose this leads to me next, does it?” he quipped with a slow smirk. “I am no man?”

            “You know as well as I that you are a savage, Shaw.”

            “A god,” he corrected smoothly. “A god among men and mutants.” Strolling forward, he uttered a jagged bark of laughter when Erik stepped defensively in front of Xavier. The face of the boy he had _made_ was torn with anger, grief, and betrayal. One of the former Juniper inmates down below deck – red eyes, posh bearing – had communicated aloud every nasty little truth Xavier had the audacity to reveal, brilliant crimson eyes wary of the helmet. So Erik knew everything, did he?

            Shaw smiled tightly. Anyone who fought for a cause should know; sacrifices had to be made.

            “A madman,” Charles spat, eyes wandering searchingly over the helmet.

            Someone else entered the den, and they all turned to see Sinister looking worse for wear. Shadows sunk his eyes; the nails that gripped the wall were yellowed. The normally taught skin over his face had loosened into a gaunt mask of accelerated age. Beneath the familiar long black lashes his eyes glinted like dim rubies cast in shadow. Leaning heavily against the wall, Sinister took in the room, his mouth tight with concentration to remain upright. Xavier’s mental command to sleep had been hard to resist. Hard enough that Sinister had to borrow from his other power stores, leaving behind some of his indefatigable youth. Sitting there looking a little more like the old man he’d been for decades, Sinister surveyed the group of insane mutants he was trapped with two thousand feet underwater. He was sincerely missing Juniper.

            Emma stared at Sinister, eyes half lidded while her usual pristine face was still marred by smears of blood. His gaze swiveled over to her and she smiled, one finger crooked towards him.

            Ignoring the red-eyed mutant, Sebastian strode up to Xavier and brushed Erik aside effortlessly. He stared down into Xavier’s face, noting the zealous blue of his eyes and the reopened cut on his lip. “Pathetic,” he murmured, eyebrow twitching as Erik hovered close, a low possessive growl starting in the metal-bender’s throat when he curled a finger under Xavier’s chin to angle his face up. “You never saw the potential, though I did.”

            “And because if my _potential_ ,” Charles murmured darkly, “You had me raped and beaten. To what?” He jerked his head away, glaring defiantly back as Shaw’s expression darkened. That damned helmet was a solid wall against his abilities, and no matter how hard he threw himself at it, he couldn’t breach the void. “To make me as hateful and jaded as you? As you’ve done to Erik?” At his side he felt Erik’s eyes burning into him. The wretched sting of the other man’s thoughts was like being in a child’s mind right after the father he admired strikes his mother.

            Shaw’s hand was suddenly around his throat, deceptively warm and smooth. Erik grabbed Shaw’s wrist in warning, but the older man just smirked.

            “Erik, you know that you can’t do a thing to stop me. You know that. Your little whore here has seduced you into weakness.” His words were clipped and matter-of-fact. Weakness was the most deplorable fate for a mutant; he’d long since beaten and humiliated the softness out of Erik, or so he’d thought. It really was a damn annoyance that Charles Xavier had to reappear as the thorn in his side. He wondered if he should snap his neck, though Erik might not forgive him for that. Erik had forgiven him so much, but somehow he knew Charles Xavier would be different. “Do you know that you’re the reason for this helmet, Charles?” His fingers tightened, the movement echoed in Erik’s grip.

            “You’re afraid of me,” Charles rasped. He choked when Shaw lifted him off the floor. The wine cooler clattered through the air and ricocheted off of Shaw’s side. The helmet shone as the monster turned his head and looked bemusedly at Erik. Reaching out, the tip of his finger barely brushed the mutant’s chest before he was crashing into the opposite wall. Around them the metal of the sub groaned and Shaw laughed.

            “Why, yes, kill us all Erik.”

            He met Charles’ eyes, but the telepath still looked so blank and drawn. Gritting his teeth, Erik paced furiously. There was no way he could beat Shaw. The metal of use was limited considering their location. He had been afraid when Mojo held Charles captive, but this was so much worse. It was _Shaw_.

            Then he remembered Emma, lying there prone on the ground, her white clothing camouflaging her against the carpet. Launching himself across the room, Erik ripped Emma up by the hair and twisted the wine cooler with his ability until it hung suspended at her throat as a long blade. She struggled weakly, eyes bulging when the metal punctured skin. Her powers must be in tatters. That, or she still feared Charles.

            They faced each other, Shaw holding Charles aloft, Erik gripping the other telepath mercilessly by the hair. It was a silent clash of titans that Sinister watched with baited breath. Glancing over to the prone figure of the teleporter, Sinister slowly inched towards him, reaching out with what remained of his telepathy. He sought to unlock the door Charles had sealed inside the mutant’s head, cutting off his consciousness and leaving a slumbering mind that wouldn’t wake until commanded. Sinister intended to take command and save himself before this collection of mad men destroyed them all.

            “Let’s take a moment, shall we?” Shaw offered, sounding bored. “You harm her, I snap your telepath’s neck. And then I’m afraid, Erik, that I’ll have to deal with you very harshly.”

            Charles didn’t catch what Erik said, more of a snarl than an articulate reply. He was staring blankly at the floor, acutely aware of Sinister’s movements behind them. Emma was glaring at him from across the room. He knew if he tried anything she still had the wherewithal to sense it and that might just result in Shaw carrying out his threat. Vaguely aware of Sinister’s plans, Charles was amused at the mutant’s blaring sentiment placing their collective sanity in question. Though he did dance around the undeniable truth to Sinister’s cautionary deduction. He felt disjointed, empty. There really was _nothing_ to feel. Pity, perhaps, to have thrown Erik into the state of emotional turmoil that sent his mind into a cacophony of defining memories, most of which were regrettably centered around pain. It was easy to sense that Shaw had been some sort of deformed father figure and Erik seemed to think he owed the man his life, despite everything. Charles hoped it was just shock and pointedly ignored the underlying current of solid denial Erik held.

            Meanwhile, Sinister had reached the teleporter. He needed to get closer than in his youth, close enough to hear the person’s thoughts. Azazel’s were muted, drugged. Freezing bare inches from the red mutant, Sinister barely processed the words being exchanged before he made contact. The teleporter’s skin was hot to the touch, texture rough and thicker than human skin. Carefully sliding into his mind, Sinister sought the mental hold Xavier had put in place and lifted it like the latch on a door.

            Openly gasping when the sharp crack signaled Azazel’s liberation, Charles took the split second that Shaw loosened his grip to bolt, dropping quickly before he rolled away and grabbed the nearest thing he could find to fling at the mutant. When it actually hit Shaw Charles realized the man was snarling and tearing at his legs in fury where impossibly tentacles of metal had bled up from the floor to slowly wrap around his legs. The metal fused into steel boots, effectively trapping him until he released enough energy to melt it or break it. Only marveling for a moment, Charles snapped his head around and cried out for Erik when Azazel appeared directly before the metal-bender, reaching for him – he’d teleport him to the middle of the sea, or worse.

            Emma had been shoved out of the way as Azazel’s tail flew towards Erik’s face, barely deflected by the blade he’d crafted from the wine cooler. He knew that the moment Azazel touched him he’d be gone.

            It took just shy of a moment to reach out and take hold of Azazel’s mind again, Erik landing a well-aimed punch to his jaw before realizing the mutant was standing limp. Glancing at Charles, he nodded sharply and made his way towards Shaw. Charles realized in that moment that he didn’t trust Erik enough not to fall victim to Shaw’s silver tongue. There was too much there, too much damage, too much sick dependency; not Erik’s fault but nevertheless ingrained.

            Charles knew Emma had to go before he and Erik could focus completely on Shaw. Twisting around, throat still tender from Shaw’s rough hold on him, Charles walked Azazel over to Emma, grabbing her by the back of the neck and hauling her up. Crystal eyes flashed before she offered him a garish grin, frightening and appalling beneath the gauzy shade of blood.

            Cursing, Sinister wheeled towards the door, wincing when Shaw kicked one leg free from the metal holds Lehnsherr had formed. Where was the woman? He glanced over to see the teleporter holding her, his eyes glazed. Then he was caught by her stare and held in sway. Her teeth were startlingly white. Sinister’s heart stuttered, his mouth opening to gasp a silent scream as her lips twisted maniacally.

            Charles yelled, “Go!” And the pair of mutant’s disappeared in the sulfurous smoke. At the same moment Sinister crumpled into a coughing fit, twitching spasmodically against the doorframe. Charles would put him back to sleep, keep him out of the way. But Miss Frost needed her last rights. He followed the trail Azazel left for miles, closing in on the mental line hovering over the blasting icy waters black as pitch below. From their height the water looked like a sheer pewter rock face. Emma’s feet dangled, face turning an alarming shade of crimson as Azazel’s tail coiled around her neck. In an ungainly display of panic that Charles would otherwise never associate with her, Emma kicked and flailed. Her tongue lolled out her mouth as spittle flew in lieu of words. Azazel frowned for Charles.

            “Emma,” he said, thick Russian accent carrying the distinct British cadence. Charles faltered, staring into the eyes filled with uncharacteristic terror. Thoughts sprung at his mind like the barest hints of wings. He was too far to hear, Azazel a buffer between their minds. He didn’t want to hear her words, but something about the fear and the panic in her expression derailed him. Up until this point Charles had thought Emma Frost would rather succumb to death than be humiliated and beg. A chord was struck and Charles felt tears running down Azazel’s face by proxy. He didn’t know what this was. Revenge? An ugly thing. He winced when her choked cries began to take shape, hand signaling wildly.

            “Sin-” she croaked, “I- Sin-”

            Charles began to unravel Azazel’s tail. “There’s no time for penance. The sea will forgive your sins.”

            She dropped like a stone. Charles left before he could see her hit the water.

 

…

 

            Charles opened his eyes to find Shaw in the process of throwing Erik across the den, sending the man crashing into the wall opposite. Every available shred of metal in the place was flying at the helmeted mutant, but of course it did nothing. Charles shook his head, stowing Azazel like a toy off to the side of room. Sinister was nowhere to be found, ever the opportunist. Attention snapping back as Shaw laughed cruelly, Charles caught sight of blood along Erik’s cheek. He didn’t know whose fight this was any longer.

            Eyes slicing across the telepath, Sebastian drawled, “I destroyed all credibility on your record, hoping to drive you back.” He regarded Charles aloofly. “You were almost perfect. Such beautiful potential.” Arching forward as Erik smashed a chair into his back, Sebastian grabbed the metal-bender by the shoulder and squeezed hard enough to rip a muffled scream out of him. One leg was still caught in Erik’s ridiculous little trap, and with a flash of annoyance Sebastian noticed the metal was actively bleeding up his leg.

            The cracks in his mental wall widened. Charles paced closer to Shaw, eyes darting to Erik’s pained expression. Flying metal swerved neatly around him, continuing its tireless – if ineffective - assault on Shaw. Charles was close enough to reach out and touch the mutant when he stopped.

            “I promised those academic recommendations, but I’m afraid I may have said too much,” Sebastian purred. “In all fairness, you were quite unstable at the time.” Erik aimed a kick at his side, but he only absorbed it and pushed the rebounding blow into the bone of Erik’s shoulder. A shallow gasp from his protégé lit up a smile on his face as he continued to chat with Xavier as if they were at evening tea. “And always so smart. That’s why,” he grunted when the metal cast on his leg began to tighten until he felt a distinct strain. Jerking his fist, Erik couldn’t muffle the outraged shout mangled by pain that escaped him as Sebastian cleanly dislocated his shoulder. “That’s why I had this made.” He motioned at the helmet. “If you ever grew a backbone you’d be out for revenge.” A smile blossomed when Charles’ expression darkened. “Ah, there it is. I’d like more of that. I’d like you to fight me with all you’ve got and when you lie at my feet-” he bared his teeth as he threw Erik like a ragdoll against the floor- “you will realize that I am all you have left.”

            Charles was shaking. He knew Shaw could see it by the way his eyes crinkled at the edges with amusement. “I killed Emma, Shaw. You think that if I can crack her diamond form and drop her into the sea that I can’t touch you?” Circling steadily, Charles never broke eye contact with Shaw as he crouched down next to Erik. Laying a hand over the back of his neck, he whispered into his head, _Erik. I have an idea. We must work quickly, my friend._

            The telepath stiffened when Sebastian’s fingers carded through that thick brown hair. He smiled, head cocked to the side. “It’s a dog eat dog world.”

            Shaw seemed amused and that unsettled Charles more than anger. He sucked in a breath when long graceful fingers tightened in his hair, angling his head back so he stared into Shaw’s stony eyes at a harsh angle. The feel of the man’s touch was sickening. Pressure built under his brow, skin flushing with the heat of nameless rage that shoved against the mental wall keeping it from consuming him and driving him to do exactly what Shaw described. He could feel what control he had left slipping, as if a mob of angry people were beating at a wooden door. When they finally broke through…

            He leaned down to whisper into Charles’ ear, “When I tell you everything we’ve done, Charles you won’t have a choice but to join us. I might forgive Erik this transgression; you always were such a pretty boy.”

            His blood boiled at the sight of Shaw _petting_ Charles. But Erik stayed low, his shoulder enflamed with agony. Reaching out with his power he felt along the floor.

            “You were a lamb amidst the wolves,” Sebastian lamented. “But that’s exactly what I’d wanted. The Academy primed a vicious pack of human wolves, the perfect villains in our heroic story.” Charles’ eyes widened almost comically. “How are we supposed to wage a war without enemies, Charles?” he lectured. “If I didn’t teach them to act on their hate than the mongrels would just continue to strut around like they own the planet. But they don’t. _We do_.”

            Charles bit his lip when Shaw’s hand jerked in his hair. He should’ve known. The Academy was just a breeding ground for future anti-mutant leaders – the exact figures Shaw was planning to make examples out of. Shaw perpetuated a culture of hatred for mutants at the Academy, and Charles was sure Emma had been just as much a part. Raising the stock he was to slaughter, just to give a “them” to counter the “us”. Charles swallowed down bile.

             “And you know,” he kept on, following the scattered patches of bruising over Charles’ face. “When you were attacked, as I watched through Emma when they poured all of their hate into you…” He forced Charles’ eyes up to stare directly into his own. “It was beautiful. You were beautiful. I saw the phoenix burning in you, and I could picture your rise from the ashes to conquer your tormentors as we will all conquer the cockroaches who think they rule us.”

            His finger was just dipping to trace Charles’ lip when Shaw was ripped up from the ground by the metal boot trapping his foot. It magnetized to the ceiling with a clean click and Erik burst into action, cradling Shaw’s head and loosening the helmet in a matter of seconds as the mutant hung stunned.

            Then Shaw was laid bare. And Charles opened the floodgates.

 

…

 

            Erik was aware of screaming. It was the bloodcurdling sound of dying. It chilled him, though he’d heard it before. Once in his life he’d made that sound before.

            He was also aware of Charles, but Erik couldn’t collect himself enough to find him. The terrible screams were choked off for seconds before they started up again, somehow… wetter than before. Like flickers of flame Erik caught nuances of shadowed emotions he couldn’t name. Then regret grew to the forefront of his mind like a tattered banner and pulsated outwards until Erik could feel the hot sting of tears being pulled from him. He realized the regret was secondhand, swirling like smoke all around him. Trying to shake free from it, Erik found his body too heavy. The lack of sight hadn’t occurred to him until he tried to open his eyes. Panic settled in his gut when the screaming broke, nothing but an agonized scrape of inhuman noise. Whatever was behind that horrible sound was kept from him, actively covered though the regret kept running over him like water. Eventually even the skeleton of that scream corroded. Left in its wake was a gaping rift of grief.

            _Charles_ , he thought. _Charles._

The faintest voice answered him. _Erik?_

            Erik opened his eyes, blinking as the drowsiness evaporated from his limbs and he could sit up. The first thing he saw was Shaw, still suspended from the ceiling. His hard eyes were splayed open, the whites bloodshot and showing all around the steely iris and a shrunken pupil. Shaw’s mouth was open, still caught in the shape of that scream torn from inside of him. The sharp tongue that delivered the words that had both broken and built Erik lolled out his mouth.

            Scanning the room, Erik found Charles curled up in a ball against the leather couch, staring sightlessly at the corpse. Moving slowly as his sluggish limbs regained their control Erik dragged himself closer. Reaching out with a quivering hand, he caught the edge of Charles’ elbow, curling around it. Struck blue eyes didn’t shift away from Shaw’s body. The telepath’s frame was so taught that every muscle stood out in his slender neck, the knuckles of his good hand stark white where they dug into his leg. His broken arm, still slumped and dislocated at the shoulder, curled over the floor uselessly. Erik felt answering sympathy in his own shoulder, already swollen and aching where Shaw had popped the socket as easily as a doll’s.

            “Charles,” he murmured, gingerly putting an arm around the telepath’s shoulders. Blue eyes snapped from Shaw to him.

            “I gave it all to him,” Charles whispered, his voice full of wonder. “I released it, everything I’ve been hiding, running from. It poured out of me,” he explained slowly, “Into him.” Looking helplessly into Erik’s concerned face Charles grabbed a handful of the metal-bender’s shirt. “I killed him, Erik.”

            The change in the telepath was noticeable. Charles looked exhausted, but the shadows were absent from his expression, the darkness swimming in his eyes was gone. “He killed himself, Charles,” he comforted. The thought of Shaw dead was too huge to consider. Erik instead held Charles closer, careful not to jolt his shoulder. If Charles meant what Erik thought… He looked down into Charles’ face to see it open and clear. Blue eyes were bright, if tired and glistening with unshed tears. He looked lighter. Erik wondered if this person in his arms was more like the Charles that once was.

            “You think I’ve been cleansed,” he noted, leaning away from the other man. Shaking his head in disbelief, Charles turned to look at Shaw, jaw clenching. “I took the anger and I cut it out like a tumor,” he recalled. “But I can’t just make it disappear. I can’t make myself forget. So I-” he paused thoughtfully, eyes lingering on Shaw’s fixed expression. “I transplanted it.” Taking a deep breath, he pulled out of Erik’s embrace. “Let’s leave, Erik. Let’s leave this place. I’ll wake the others and they can go, but let’s first get out of here.”

            “How?”

            A tremulous smile broke out over his face. “A submarine, Erik, is made of metal. Take us to the surface. Then take us to land.”

            Leaving the room, leaving Shaw’s tortured expression frozen in death, Erik left Charles in the medical room while he went over the controls of the sub and tried to override the autopilot. Below the inmates still slept on peacefully, along with the rest of Shaw’s crew.

            Considering the controls with a critical eye, he began to puzzle out the panel of commands. Nearly jumping out of his skin when he heard movement, Erik whipped his head around to see Sinister slinking around the door.

            “You made yourself scarce,” he grumbled, returning his attention to the controls.

            “Hmm,” Sinister hummed vaguely. “Had to get my bearings. Where is Charles?”

            “Medical room,” he said shortly. Sinister gave him a long look before walking out of the room.

 

…

 

            Charles dabbed the alcohol along his cheek, hissing at the sharp burn. But it was a welcome distraction. If he let himself think too much he’d be taken back to Shaw’s face right before his voice died. That moment had been Charles’ awakening. Now he went about cleaning his wounds in a state of disbelief. What he’d done to Shaw – well, it felt like someone else had done it. Someone so angry and brutal that Charles shied away from the feeling it had inspired. But it was intimately familiar to him. _Was_ it him? Or just a jagged piece of himself?

            Distracted by his thoughts, Charles didn’t see Sinister until the mutant was standing over him. He jumped and jarred his shoulder badly, gasping before it dissolved into a self-deprecating chuckle. “Mister Sinister,” he acknowledged, mouth twisting as he shifted over to allow the mutant space to sit. He waited until Sinister had settled next to him, brilliant eyes boring into Charles with undue intensity. “Did you see Erik?” Sinister’s head tilted thoughtfully, one hand wandering over to finger the surgical knife Charles had used to pry the alcohol open. When it became obvious that Sinister wasn’t going to answer, Charles swabbed the lip of the bottle with a fresh cotton ball before wiping it over another cut.

            All the while Sinister stared at him with a detached sort of irritation shading his features. He was absently toying with the surgical knife.

            “I never got a chance to tell you, Sinister,” he said, “But you were a great help with the Sanctuary. You were just as much a part of that as anyone.” He stared down at the contrast of his purplish bruising against the crisp white of his bandages. “Perhaps you’ll build a new life, a new Sanctuary-”

            His blue eyes grew wide when the surgical blade slid into his side.

            Sinister’s laugh was cold. “Oh, sugar, I don’t think so.”       

            Charles gasped, the strange gushing of heat out his middle secondary to the absolutely chilling realization that Emma Frost was currently pulling a bloodied blade out of his body, her mannerisms now crystal clear even as she wore Mister Sinister’s skin.

            “It’s a form of projection,” she said by way of explanation. “Or I suppose you could call it more of a possession.” Teeth flashed in a grin. “To make it _real_ simple, sugar, I threw him out of his body and into mine.”

            His hand weakly moved over his stomach as the truth slammed into him of what Emma – _Sinister_ – had tried to tell him before he fell to his death. Charles looked down at the spreading stain of blood. There was no pain. But Charles didn’t want that; it meant his body was shutting down, heart thundering both with shock and raw horror at what he’d accidentally done to Sinister. He looked up into Emma’s eyes, seeing her smug cruelty shining through Sinister’s face.

            _Erik_ , he whispered. _Erik._

            Emma twirled the blade in her fingers. “Maybe I’ll slit your throat, Charles.” Rolling the butt of the knife against her lips in thought, she finally decided, “No. I’d much rather watch you bleed out. This fool’s mind limits me too much to have stopped you from killing Sebastian, but I suppose I can still honor him by letting you suffer.” The blade flashed and she turned it again, its hypnotizing pattern drawing her gaze more than Charles’ fading blue eyes. “Things will be different now with a woman in charge.” She laughed easily. “Maybe I should thank you, Charles-” She froze as the blade in her hand turned against her grip. Glancing up at Charles, she saw relief in his gaze right before the knife buried itself between her eyes.

            Erik leapt over the falling body to press frantic hands to Charles’ stomach. The man was deathly pale, bone white. He gasped against the tears that fell, sobs pulling at his chest as he snarled through his teeth. Blood defied his hands and continued to spring forth and soak Charles in red. Teeth bared, he took the knife and reshaped it, creating a malleable plate. It drifted down and sealed itself over the stab wound, bleeding down into fit the puncture and press the flesh until the blood no longer had an opening to breach. Any hope that this was a solution was a blatant lie. Erik tried to catch Charles’ eyes as the telepath keeled over.

            “Charles,” he yelled, shaking him, his shoulder screaming as he called out, “Charles!” He’d die. He’d die if Erik didn’t get him to a hospital. Helpless to do anything more, Erik pulled himself onto the cot and cradled Charles in his arms. With his power he reached out and took hold of the submarine with newfound strength, urging it up to the surface at a reckless pace. He only hoped the pressure monitors could keep up with his speed.

            Burying his face into Charles hair, terrified when he was met with silence, Erik pleaded, “Charles, answer me. Can you feel me? Please!”

            The next second the sub was rocked by an external vibration. Erik could feel it through the metal. Counting to three, he screamed through his teeth when he lifted Charles while one arm lanced with pain as he carried him to the control room. Charles’ glazed eyes revolved like they had vertigo. He staggered when another vibration rocked the sub, and he could hear sharp crackling of static on the sub’s radio. Coming closer to the panel he saw a huge signal on the radar, approaching them swiftly on the surface.

            A familiar voice cut through the static. “-stand down!”

            “Moira,” Charles murmured dreamily, blood flecking his lips. “Erik, politely notify her that I am dying and need medical attention posthaste, would you.”

            “Shut up, Charles,” Erik snapped. Unclipping the radio he called through to the others, “Charles is in critical condition. We’ll meet you topside in-” he checked the gauges “-five minutes. Is McCoy with you?”

            Moira seemed flustered, “Is this… Lehnsherr?”

            “Answer my question, Captain,” he growled.

            “Yes, I’m here!” came Hank McCoy’s voice. “What’s happened to Charles?”

            “Stab wound, abdominal,” he gritted out, hugging Charles closer to his chest.

            Hank’s voice was hard when it crackled over the radio, “We’ll need to move fast.”

 

…

 

            Darwin stood outside Charles’ hospital room. He was alone in the hallway, stationed like a sentinel on watch. As the hours slowly ticked by, he took a deep breath and glanced through the small window set in the door to Charles’ resting room where he’d been recovering from a harrowing surgery finished hours before.

            Erik was aware of the guard outside, there more for his sake than Charles. He had no doubt that they would try and return him to custody once Charles awoke. Of course Erik had no intention of going back, only of moving forward. Over the last twelve hours, he’d done nothing but fret. Now that Charles slept peacefully under his watch, he’d taken the time to think. Of Shaw, of Emma, of their blatant betrayal and the lie they’d made out of the cause Erik had dedicated his life to. When Charles woke from this healing sleep, where did they stand? Though he had no intention of leaving Charles’ side, the reality was that staying was impossible. He was a wanted criminal, escaped from jail. Furthermore, they knew about his ability. The government would want him subdued for the danger he could pose. And would pose.

            Even with Shaw’s death, Erik couldn’t accept that the cause would die with him. There was no one to say that those humans who’d held him wouldn’t have done the same awful things without the setup. The hatred was still real.

            But what of Charles? Running long fingers through his hair, Erik watched the feathery tresses brush across the pale brow. Long eyelashes brushed the apples of his cheeks, partially obscured by bandages. A proper sling supported his arm; shoulder still swollen after the doctors had popped his arm back into its socket. The same was done for Erik, though he’d long since removed the sling. His shoulder still smarted with each movement, but he hadn’t the time to coddle his wounds. There was nothing to spare outside of his concern for Charles. The doctors still hadn’t confirmed if he would wake at all, though the surgery was successful in stopping internal bleeding, though they’d had to remove a piece of intestine. Erik hadn’t listened too thoroughly to the details. All he heard was that Charles would live, but the coma could hold. If he didn’t wake up…

            If he didn’t, Erik would travel into Hell to avenge him.

            Laying his head down on Charles’ chest, he listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart. IVs led from his good arm, patches monitoring his vital signs decorating his bare chest. The soft beeping of the machines told him Charles was alive, but Erik was desperate for more. Running his fingers over smooth skin, Erik traced the bandages covering his side, curling over the protruding hipbone. Checking the door to make sure Darwin had returned to his spot outside, Erik hefted himself onto the bed, careful not to disturb the IV.

            Light as a breath he brushed his lips against Charles’ mouth. They were warm, still red as blood. He kissed him again, swiping his tongue along Charles’ lower lip to taste him. And he called out mentally, _Charles. Charles, do you hear me?_ He lifted his face away and stared sadly at the quiet drops of salty tears fallen from his own eyes. Waiting in silence, Erik gave up after a few minutes, succumbing to the steady beep of the machines. He settled his head on Charles’ chest to continue to listen to his heart.

            _Erik._

Jerking up, Erik stared down as Charles’ eyelashes fluttered while his eyes moved beneath closed lids. “Charles,” he uttered hoarsely, gripping the telepath’s arm. “Can you open your eyes?”

            _My friend, you’ve come for me_.

            “I never left. I’ve been here the entire time,” he whispered back, willing Charles to open his eyes. He desperately needed to see them. “By your side. Oh, Charles, open your eyes.”

            _Kiss me again_. There was a faint curl of amusement. _That will break the White Witch’s spell._

            Erik practically fell onto him, eagerly pressing their lips together. He moaned when a hot tongue darted out. And when he drew back, tired blue eyes crinkled warmly in a smile. Charles’ red lips were wet, a quiet blush stealing over his cheeks. Everything in the entire world fell away from them. Nothing else mattered. Not Shaw, not the cause, not the forces that would keep them apart.

            “You think you’re Sleeping Beauty?” he murmured, grinning when Charles laughed silently.

            _That would make you my Prince Charming, wouldn’t it?_

His smile broadened, hand stroking Charles’ hair and face reverently. “I’m not very charming.” Bending his neck, he caught Charles’ mouth again; jaw working as the other man opened beneath him. He fought to calm his pounding heart as he was swamped with heat and _want_. With a careful flick of his power he melted the lock on the door. Thrilled amusement danced on the edge of his consciousness as Charles brought up a hand to grip the back of Erik’s neck, guiding him in deeper.

            It would be hours yet before anyone found them. Darwin had mysteriously fallen into a light sleep, and the nurses couldn’t remember why they hadn’t checked Charles Xavier’s room on their rounds that evening. When they finally got into the room it was to find Charles sitting up in bed, calmly reading one of the medical periodicals kept in the side table. Erik Lehnsherr was nowhere to be found and upon questioning, Charles made no indication that he’d even seen the metal-bender after he woke.

            But before the enchantment ended, before Erik left Charles with a heartfelt promise to find him, it was only Erik. And only Charles.

 

…

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who continued on this journey until the end.
> 
> -Villain


End file.
